


Flame

by Tw1st



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Romance, Scotland, mash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-01-27 23:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12592772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tw1st/pseuds/Tw1st
Summary: When Mary Stuart, the young and headstrong Queen of Scotland, befriends Sebastian de Poitiers, the free-spirited bastard son of the French King, the course of history may be changed, forever.





	1. What I Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Some things you should know before delving into this fic: This is, in fact, a Mash story. That isn't to say that I don't love Francis – I do! I just… love Bash more. ;) But don't worry, I will take good care of Francis. He will frequent this fic, and he is not going to be villainized.
> 
> Also, this story begins right around season one, episode two. I will draw certain dialogues from the show -through all of the first season- some of which you may recognize.
> 
> Lastly, if you frequent FanFiction.net, you may have seen this posted on my profile over there.

_I had the week that came from hell_   
_And yes, I know that you could tell_   
_But you're like the net under the ledge_   
_When I go flying off the edge_   
_You go flying off as well_

_You got something I need_   
_Yeah, in this world full of people there's one killing me_   
_And if we only die once, I wanna die with you_

_-Something I Need,_   
_One Republic_

* * *

**C** atherine de' Medici, Queen of France, found herself in a very dangerous and difficult position.

She watched with mounting trepidation as her trusted seer, Nostradamus, entered into her private chambers, passing her line of servants and guards as if they were invisible.

As the tall prophet made his way over to the writing desk where the queen sat, with her hands clasped tightly within her lap, her guards looked to her for orders. Catherine nodded to them discretely, waving a dismissive hand through the air, and waited in silence until the armor-clad men and lower-class attendants had completely vacated the room. Then, hesitantly, she granted the French court's renowned prophet her full and undivided attention.

The look that she found within the seer's eyes, however, caused the queen's stomach to immediately coil and drop.

"Do not give me that look." She warned, leaning back against her seat. She was dressed richly in an evening gown, colored in royal reds, and her hair and fingers were adorned with beautiful, glittering jewelry. The crown atop her golden hair sat perfectly still as she stared up at Nostradamus, watching his face, wondering what thoughts hid behind his deep brown eyes.

"What have you _done_?" Asked Nostradamus slowly, in his familiar yet raspy voice.

Catherine's brows quirked upward in response, momentarily, and she challenged him to continue with pursed lips. It was universally understood throughout the kingdom that, out of all the subjects at Catherine's disposal, Nostradamus was the closest thing that the French queen had to a friend; which made him a singular exception, when it came to confrontation.

Nostradamus shifted uncomfortably beneath the brown fabrics of his tunic, and he lowered his voice to the tone of a whisper. "You blackmailed a boy into taking Mary's virtue by force."

"I did what I had to, to protect myself _and_ you." Catherine said while lifting her chin higher. She watched as her trusted seer's jawline tensed and released, knowing that her words struck him at his core. "If only that _stupid_ Scottish boy had actually succeeded in poisoning her…"

"That boy is now dead."

Catherine deadpanned. She ought to have known that Nostradamus would express his distaste for the outcome of her most recent ploy; but she couldn't be bothered with his sentimental aversions. She had work to do. She had plans that needed to be set into motion. She had a son who needed her help.

"A necessary death." She defended.

Nostradamus' mouth grew tight and hard.

It was a delicate problem they faced to be sure, but something _had_ to be done. Their knowledge of the future -kept in secret between only them- put both the queen and her trusted seer in a wonderful yet terrible position. They knew the outcome of her son's horrible fate, but not the cause – _entirely_. And Catherine understood, without doubt, that her headstrong son would not take kindly to her interference; especially if he were to discover her involvement in recent -unfortunate- events.

"How do I tell my son you see his death? That his union with Mary will be the cause?" Asked Catherine. She placed her elbow atop her desk and rested her chin at the tip of her thumb, then began running her index finger back and forth along her lower lip. She glanced around her private chambers, as if searching for an answer among her belongings; her gaze bouncing from the red and gold tapestries along the windows, to the posh pillows above the bed, and lastly onto the wood-carved mantel piece atop the crackling fireplace.

Nostradamus was silent for a moment, considering her dilemma, before drawing in a harsh breath. "Francis doesn't believe in prophecies. You cannot tell him."

"I must draw Francis' attention elsewhere, indefinitely. And somehow force Mary to withdraw herself from the arrangement…" Catherine mused, drawing her gaze downward and onto the writing desk before her.

_Of course_ , she thought to herself, staring at a blank piece of parchment paper as her plan began to formulate within her mind.

With haste, she reached across the writing desk for her feathered quill. She dipped the sharp end of the tool aggressively into the ink bottle to her right, then inched the blank parchment closer to her breast. After a moment's consideration, she began to write out the foundation for her brilliant plan. As her hand flew across the paper, carving words of betrayal across each line, she could feel Nostradamus' eyes pressing into the side of her face.

Catherine paused, flicking her attention back up and onto the tall seer.

"I trust your visions, and your council," her tone was softer, kinder, and more determined than before, "but until your visions are altered I will stop at _nothing_ to end the alliance, and break this engagement apart."

A strange shadow flashed across Nostradamus' face before he spoke, with a pernicious tone, "I will not assist you in harming any more innocent people."

The queen acknowledged his sentiments -just for a moment- before returning to her writing. A thick anticipation hung in the air between Catherine and Nostradamus as she worked, scribbling across the parchment as if she were punishing it. The letter had to be perfect; and, desperate as it was, it had to be convincing.

Once she was completely satisfied with the final product, having read it over several times, the French queen rounded her shoulders with pride and wet her lips, once again leaning back into the cushions of her chair. It _was_ perfect. The plan, the letter – all of it.

"Do not worry," Catherine said coolly, dropping her quill into its home of ink while rising confidently from her seat. The legs of her chair scraped loudly across the tile floors as the queen reached her hand forward to cup Nostradamus' bearded chin, in a strange show of affection. "I have thought of another way."

Nostradamus looked to her with uncertainty, but remained as silent as stone.

He watched in confusion as the queen proceeded to fold the letter into three separate sections and stamped it with a red seal labeled from French Court. She then glided to the doorway with clicking heels and thrust the large door open with an air of importance to reveal a sea of guards and servants waiting dutifully across the threshold.

Catherine glanced over her subjects for a moment -searching for a specific face- before handing the letter to a short servant girl that she recognized as being truly loyal. The girl silently received the letter and looked to the queen with obvious apprehension.

Catherine's lips stretched back to reveal a pompous smile. "See that this gets to Lady Olivia D'Amencourt of Italy. And be discreet."

* * *

**S** ebastian de Poitiers, bastard son of King Henry II, stood at the top of the stairs as Queen Mary of Scotland entered into the hallway below; and he caught himself staring.

There were times -not many, but a few- when Sebastian preferred the safety of the French Court to that of the constant call of the wild forest; but, ever since Queen Mary's arrival, he seemed to desire the confining walls of the castle above all else. There was a lightness that Her Grace's presence had brought to the royal estate; though, he couldn't quite place his finger on _how_.

Sebastian leaned into the railing along the castle's upper level, steadying himself against the wooden posts as his hands hung freely over the edge. Servants and guards moved noisily behind him, shuffling hurriedly by as they tended to their afternoon duties, but his attentions were captured elsewhere.

His eyes haltingly trailed after the Scottish queen below him, who was enveloped by sunlight as she sauntered past the tall and radiant windows with her loyal dog in tow. Her long dark hair hung in rich ringlets down the back of her white gown, which was form-fitting to her graceful curves, and her hand ran softly over the nape of her dog's neck with affection. As usual, everything about her appeared elegant and -somewhat- ethereal; from the way that she moved, down to the smaller, more intimate details, like the twin braids that framed the sides of her narrow face.

From the moment that Sebastian had laid eyes upon Mary, when she had exited her carriage only a few days prior, his entire chest had caved inward as if he'd been squarely struck by a fast-moving stag. The king's bastard had heard rumors of the Queen of Scot's beauty, prior to their meeting, but words had not justly prepared him for her charm _or_ -of what he had later discovered- her wit. And, true to his nature, Sebastian was easily drawn to these enticing traits, no matter the woman.

Even if, he subconsciously scolded himself, that woman so happened to be his little brother's fiancée...

" _Take care, my brave son, or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours."_ Sebastian's jaw tightened as he considered his mother's warning from a few days before.

He had been all-too quick to lend a hand when Mary's dog went jaunting into the forest, and he had been equally eager to assist in the capture of the escaped boy, Colin, who'd attempted to ruin her virtue. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, Sebastian had tackled each of Mary's problems as if they personally affected him; though, he insisted that these heroic actions were due to his undevout loyalties to his little brother Francis.

But what must Francis think of Sebastian's recent involvement in the Scottish Queen's wellbeing? The king's bastard could _hardly_ make sense of it, himself...

Sebastian gnawed absentmindedly on the inside of his cheek as a dangerous thought struck him. _Ah, but you know damned well why you're involved …_

"Mary!" A voice called out to the young queen from the end of the lower hall, causing Sebastian's eyes to shift. He knew to whom the voice belonged, long before he saw her, and it was no surprise when Queen Catherine traveled into view.

The Queen of France crossed the hallway in tight strides, holding herself tall in what could only be an attempt at intimidation. Two guards, whose chainmail clinked softly with each step, shadowed closely at her heels.

Sebastian watched with growing anticipation as Mary paused and turned from the window, shifting her torso to face towards the fast approaching French Queen. He felt himself draw in a sharp breath through tightly clenched teeth, knowing how likely it was that the interaction below would spark confrontation. He was unfortunately aware -arguably, better than anyone- of how pitiless Catherine de Medici could be.

Catherine had _never_ been kind to Sebastian; even when he had been a young child. At best, her blatant disregard for his existence was the kindest thing that she had ever given to him – which, on most days, was gladly received. In contrast, Catherine initially had been pleased to welcome the young Queen of Scotland into French Court. But, as days passed and the nights grew colder, a darkness had shifted into the French Queen's heart, and she had developed a sudden cruelty when matters concerned Mary. The cause of this abrupt deviation in Catherine's demeanor had remained a mystery to Sebastian – but it had not gone unnoticed.

"Yes?" Mary responded, rolling the end of one of her dark braids between the tips of her fingers. She, too, seemed to anticipate the worst.

Catherine came to a halt at Mary's side and squared her shoulders beneath the loose garments of her flame-colored silks. Per her usual character, she was quick to the point, "it is good of you to be so _understanding_ to Francis and his needs."

Mary's dog, Stirling, let out a low whine as if he were reacting to a shift in his master's disposition.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Mary said coolly, clasping her hands at her front.

Sebastian straightened as one of the castle's hefty guards paused momentarily at his side. They exchanged an awkward glance, wherein the king's bastard was forced to realize that his current position appeared to be _spying_ rather than casual observing. He forced a smile and nodded to the guard, taking a step backwards to distance himself from the railing. Regardless, Catherine's next words did not evade his keen ears...

"I am referring to my son's lovers."

Sebastian's eyes snapped back down onto the conversing queen's below -guard be damned- and he tensed. Mary's chest began to rise and fall with heavy breaths as Catherine's eyes grew ablaze with satisfaction.

"They never last long," Catherine continued with a smirk, "you learn the signs after a while – which girl is serious and which is not."

Mary's lips twitched, as if she were holding back the desire to snap. Somehow, despite it, her voice came out even and clear, "you must be mistaken."

"He is no different than his father, in that way. Henry had known Diane first, and after our marriage I found out she was there, in his heart, all along. And then that _bastard_ son of theirs was born, who is nothing more than a complication of Henry's lust. A mistake that I must constantly endure …"

Sebastian's hands found their way back onto the railing and he gripped it with a tension that whitened his knuckles. It wasn't the mention of him -or his mother- that pricked at his emotions, but rather the delivery in which Catherine spoke of it. Sebastian knew that Francis was a great deal of things -passionate, ambitious, and sometimes foolish- but to compare him to their _father_ was simply unfathomable.

Mary fixed Catherine with a hard stare, her eyes glinting with a hint of sunlight. "I do not believe that Francis is anything like his father."

A surge of unwavering pride shot throughout Sebastian's veins and stretched up onto his lips in the form of a smirk. Mary was nothing if not bold.

"Sweet girl," Catherine said with an amused smile, "you are nothing more than a contract to Francis. You will give him heirs and mother his children - but he will _always_ seek out other company."

"Even though we are contracted into marriage, there is still hope for love and faithfulness!" Mary defended, though her voice sounded heavy with doubt.

Catherine quirked a brow and her eyes hardened as she drank in the blatant sadness on the younger queen's face. "Do not let your foolish and naïve _fairytale_ dreams cloud your mind, Mary. No one will love you here."

Mary said nothing, though Sebastian could see her jaw tighten sharply for a brief moment as tears welled within her eyes; and his heart sank into the pit of his stomach.

Catherine inhaled a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool air of the hallway. She then flicked her narrowed eyes past Mary and continued on her way, moving as if she had never paused in her journey at all.

Mary watched after Catherine with silent grief. She waited until the French Queen had completely disappeared before stooping to catch hold of Stirling's leash. She then straightened and moved towards the castle exit, blotting the back of her hand gently against the reddening flush of her cheeks as she escaped through the large, wooden doors.

With urgency, Sebastian pushed away from the railing and made his way down the tall flight of stairs; consciously aware that the heartbreak he had just witnessed within Mary's eyes had awoken something deep within his soul.

* * *

**M** ary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, wrapped her hands tightly around her elbows, cradling herself as she stared out at the vast ocean before her. She watched as the salty waves lapped against the shore in a gentle rhythm, allowing the sound of the rolling tide to calm the wild drum of her heart.

A chilled breeze brushed over the trail of fresh tears that ran down Mary's cheeks, and she wiped at them with blatant ire and frustration. What a fool she must have looked in allowing Catherine, Queen of France, to rile her in such a manor! Yet, it hadn't been Catherine's words that stoked the fire of Mary's emotions; rather, it had been the _honesty_ in what she spoke. She was not loved here, and Francis did not carry the same affections for her that she had hoped he would. Not yet, at least.

And, though matters of the heart should not have concerned or troubled a young ruler such as Mary… _they did_.

The thought of her loneliness made her feel terribly distraught.

Still, what was _even_ worse, was the reality that these tears had not been the first shed since her arrival in French Court. In fact, Mary had experienced _far_ more grief than joy within her first week at the royal castle; and her sorrows were increasingly more often, for reasons she could not fathom. She was constantly battling, internally, with some form of grief; if it wasn't the French Queen toying with her emotions on a daily basis, then it was the constant linger of danger weighing heavily upon Mary's narrow shoulders.

Of course, the young Queen of Scotland was no stranger to threats.

Since the age of six, she had lived with a metaphorical target on her back; and her enemies seemed to stretch increasingly far and wide the closer she came to ruling. Once, not along ago, she had found promise in knowing that when she took her position at the Dauphin of France's side she would be free from the constant attempts on her life…

Yet, here she stood, trapped within the French Court that had once assured her safety, being silently hunted by an enemy that _may or may not_ have been housed under the same royal roof.

Mary shuddered as she recollected on an earlier warning given by Colin, who, _incidentally_ , was the same boy who had attempted to rob Mary of her virtue. He had warned of a _higher power_ , looming among the shadows of the castle. A _higher power_ that had pressured him into committing the near-violation. A _higher power_ who -though unidentified- had the ability to ruin the boy's life if he hadn't complied with their demands. Which, in the end, did not matter; for he had been found strung-up and dead within the woods several days later.

Mary had her suspicions of who the _higher power_ may -in fact- be, but she did not give them voice. After all, who could she trust within the French Court?

Stirling snorted gruffly, jarring Mary free from her dismal thoughts. She snapped her eyes down onto the Deer Hound's gray face and studied his calm demeanor, feeling ridiculously envious of his simple and carefree life.

"Is there no one that I can trust here other than you?" She asked, hoarsely.

There was a sudden crash of pebbles beneath the sound of traveling boots, and Mary's stomach twisted with dread. Had Catherine followed her out onto the grounds, hoping to tear her down with more heartless facts? Had Francis come to inquire on his mother's behalf? Had one of her ladies-in-waiting witnessed her crude encounter with the French Queen and come to lend a sweet -but unwelcomed- ear? With expanding fear Mary twisted about on her heel so quickly that, for a fleeing moment, she thought she might lose her balance.

A rush of relief flooded throughout the Scottish Queen's chest as she examined Sebastian, the king's bastard, who was dressed in his recurrent attire; a long leather jacket, loose-fitting breeches, and a pair of knee-high riding boots. Mary had discovered, over her first week at court, that Sebastian's usual choice in clothing made his frequent departures all the more effortless; he was dressed for escape, at any given moment.

As he approached, Sebastian regarded Mary thoughtfully with his cool silvery eyes. Once he was within arm's reach, he knelt forward to run his fingers across Stirling's long back, causing the dog's tail to wag in contented welcome.

"Her bark is worse than her bight, I assure you." Sebastian spoke, with a tender tone.

Mary studied Sebastian warily as he continued to pet her dog, considering his kind assurance.

"You overheard my conversation with the Queen." Said Mary. It was not a question.

Sebastian was silent for a span, moving his hand to the space below Stirling's chin and scratching until the dog's hind leg began to comically twitch. The king's bastard then gave Mary a crooked smile and flicked his eyes up to meet hers. "You and I have that in common; Queen Catherine's animosity knows no bounds when concerning us."

A feeling of disquiet washed over Mary as his words struck a chord.

"I do not understand what _I_ have done to earn her distaste," she said plainly, "I can understand why she dislikes _you_."

Sebastian quirked an eyebrow, and a ghost of amusement flashed across his face.

Immediately horrified and embarrassed by her own thoughtless outburst, Mary's jaw dropped open as she frantically began to retract her poisonous words. "I apologize – that was cruel. I did not mean it as judgement. I simply understand that you pose a threat to her, and are a constant reminder of the King's disloyalties – not that your mother isn't pleasant, or you -"

Sebastian chuckled and rose to his feet, casually silencing Mary with his unexpected behavior. He then clasped his hands tightly behind his back and inclined his head with a dimpled smile, "you can always be honest with me, Your Grace."

Mary bit down onto her lip as heat began to rise from the center of her chest, traveling up into the tops of her cheeks. Sebastian had called her by her name on several occasions, most notably when he had caught her on her way out into the woods a week prior – though, he had used it sparingly ever since. She had been addressed as 'Your Grace' by countless individuals throughout her time in French Court, but she couldn't stand the way that it sounded when rolling off of Sebastian's tongue.

"We are friends, are we not?" Inquired Mary, with what may have been the first true smile she had given all afternoon.

Sebastian lifted his chin and caught her eyes. "I would like for us to be."

Mary's smile widened as she elaborated, "then you should know; I insist that my friends call me Mary."

Sebastian unclasped his hands and relaxed, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from between Mary and himself, and he rounded his shoulders with an air of confidence.

"Alright. If I may be so bold, _Mary_ ," he said, averting his eyes out onto the ocean, "I do not believe that Catherine's cruelty is all that bothers you on this day."

Mary wet her lips and sighed, turning her own face out toward the crashing waves. His observation -though not _incorrect_ \- was disheartening. If the king's bastard son -who truly couldn't be bothered with Mary's sorrows and internal plights- was able to sense that she was upset, then surely she wasn't portraying herself as a future queen very effectively.

Still, a voice cried out somewhere in the back of her mind, it couldn't hurt to confide in someone…

Before she could overanalyze the sudden desire to share her secrets with him, Mary blurted out, "it's Francis. He is not like I remembered."

Mary could feel, rather than see, Sebastian's eyes flicking back onto her face as he examined her silently.

"You mean to tell me that he is no longer a child?" Sebastian asked, after a span, and she did not miss his teasing tone.

Mary turned to face Sebastian once again and narrowed her eyes, unsurprised to discover that he was, in fact, staring. "On the contrary, he is acting _quite_ childish."

Sebastian chuckled, once, and offered her a sincere smile. "Give it time. This is difficult for him as well."

Mary stared at Sebastian curiously, overwhelmed by his genuine kindness.

The young queen had known very little of King Henry's bastard son before arriving in French Court. It had been her dear friend, Kenna, who had informed Mary of Sebastian, and all of his rumored history; and Mary had sorted out the facts from the fiction, over the past week. Sebastian was favored by the King, above all other royal children – which was -sometimes awkwardly- apparent. He was the son of Diane de Poitiers, the king's alarmingly beautiful mistress. He was allowed free rein of the castle -inside and out- and was regarded as a 'lord' by most of the servants, despite his _situation_.

And he was, like his brother Francis, strikingly handsome… though, their paradoxical looks could not be more drastic.

It was a matter that greatly perplexed Mary, upon first meeting the brothers. Where Francis had fine, blonde locks of wavy hair, Sebastian had straight dark hair that hung loosely around his face. Francis' eyes were blue and bright, whereas Sebastian's eyes were unusually pale – almost seeming colorless, at times. Francis stood tall-ish (taller than Mary, of course) and thin with a narrowed face, yet Sebastian stood higher than his younger brother with an oval-shaped face.

Despite their physical differences, there were _other_ obvious contrasts that Mary had discovered between Francis and Sebastian. Francis was quick-tempered when Sebastian remained calm and even. Francis put his country before anything and everything else, whereas Sebastian seemed to put his heart first. Francis was a prince, and acted accordingly… and Sebastian was…

_Wild and free_ , Mary had decided.

Sebastian cleared his throat and asked her, "Mary? What are you thinking about?"

Mary blinked back into reality, pushing aside her silly thoughts of _comparing brothers_.

"Nothing," she vowed quickly, awkwardly fingering the white fabrics of her dress.

"I swore I'd lost you for a moment there," Sebastian said with a lightness, referring to her silent span of deep thought.

Perhaps it was his pressing stare that drove her into confession, or perhaps it was his cheeky smile, but before she could stop herself - _again_ \- Mary found herself spilling her minds contents like a broken dam. "I was only thinking of how you and your brother are not alike… at all, really."

Sebastian considered this for a moment and shrugged. "We are only half-brothers."

His words catapulted Mary back onto her first day at French Court, when she had spoken with Francis within the privacy of her childhood quarters. He, too, had expressed that they were only half-brothers, yet, he had admitted to being envious of the freedom that his older sibling possessed. "He has said the same of you."

"Habit, I suppose," Sebastian started, momentarily glancing down onto the sandy ground at his feet. Mary swore she could see a hint of sadness as it shadowed his handsome features. "We are reminded of it constantly."

A home-sick longing began to creep up into Mary's senses as she thought of her own half-brother, James, who resided in Scotland with her mother, Marie. There was a likeness within their situations that tugged lightly at her heartstrings, urging her to be delicate with the matter.

"He envies you, you know? Your freedom." Said Mary, wishing to chase away the forlorn look that had begun to establish itself upon Sebastian's face.

"Yes, well," Sebastian started, glancing over his shoulder to inspect the distant courtyard, "we both possess things and have opportunities that the other desires."

Mary followed his gaze with curiosity, internally battling on whether or not she should continue to take advantage of Sebastian's sharing mood. He seemed to care deeply for Francis. And, perhaps, in caring for Francis, he also cared for Francis' future marriage…

"Sebastian…"

"We are friends, are we not?" He interrupted, snapping his attention back onto her face and mocking her with a wink.

Gladdened by the absence of his formerly dreary countenance, Mary indulged in his jesting. " _I would like for us to be_."

"Then you should know; I insist that my friends call me Bash." He said with a small tone of irony, sharing in their newly private joke.

" _Bash_ ," Mary started again with mock daintiness, before quickly shifting into a much more serious tone, "may I ask you something, and trust that you will be honest with me?"

Sensing her need for gravity, Bash evened his brow and nodded lightly. "Of course."

Mary pressed her lips together in an even line and avoided Bash's eyes by glancing down onto Stirling, who sat stilly at her side while lightly panting. "Did Francis love someone before I arrived?"

Bash shifted his weight from one foot onto the other, unmistakably troubled by her inquiry. When he spoke, his voice came out raw and uncertain, "physically?"

Mary already knew the answer to _that_. Francis was very likely _physically_ with a woman, even now. What she needed to know was if Francis had given himself -body _and_ soul- to another woman.

Drawing in a sharp breath of air, the Queen of Scots began to reconsider her question. Perhaps some things were best left unknown…

As if reading her thoughts, Bash spoke.

"Ah. I cannot speak for his heart," he whispered softly, before stammering on, "I - I _believe_ he did, yes. But she is long gone, and you are his betrothed. He understands that he has a duty to his country, and to his people."

So then, it was true; Francis had given his heart to another woman, which would explain his lack of trying when Mary attempted to form a bond. Meanwhile, she had spent the last ten years of _her_ life pining away for a boy who would never love her in return. And, as is custom with rulers and future kings and queens, Mary and Francis would be forced into a marriage that they never wanted or agreed to.

Mary tensed and glanced to Bash with a telling frown, unable to conceal her obvious dismay.

"It is all so _romantic_ , isn't it?" She inquired sarcastically, despite her better judgement.

Bash's brow furrowed. He looked as though he made to laugh, but his voice eventually broke past his amused smirk smoothly, "it is romance that you desire?"

No.

Yes.

Perhaps?

Mary's jaw did a series of pushups as she flattened her hands against her dress, oddly fidgety beneath Sebastian's pressing stare. "What I desire…"

Her voice trailed as she considered her words carefully.

There was a mountain of pressure upon Mary's shoulders, at all times. She was the ruler of a country. She was the protector of her people. She was a queen. And queen's, as an unwritten rule, did _not_ have the liberty of putting themselves first.

Bash watched her patiently – looking almost contented to do so. The look within his eyes -gentle, kind, and eager to listen- scooped Mary up into another momentary bought of grief. If only Francis would look at her in such a way!

Decidedly sick of feeling sorry for herself, Mary shook her hair back and forth and glanced upwards towards the brightening sky. A songbird flitted through the air, singing to the duo in greeting, and Mary watched as the small creature dipped and soared in playful merriment. How nice it must be, she considered, to be a songbird…

"What I desire right now is to laugh and have fun. I have been lacking in _both_ since I arrived in French Court." She stated earnestly, observing the small bird until it was lost among the trees.

Bash moved at her side, crouching down to the ground and sifting loudly through the pebbles and small rocks that scattered along the rough sand. Mary glanced to him, confused.

When he straightened, Bash shrugged his shoulders up into his neck and said simply, "then I will make it my personal duty to see to it that you laugh and have fun, every day."

Bash then twisted his hips towards the water's edge and chucked a flat stone out into the rolling tide. Mary watched as the rock soared out onto the ocean's waves and landed -once, twice, three times- along the water's surface, skipping across the top of the sea.

Mary's eyes widened and she gasped, intrigued, "how did you…"

"First, you must find a flat stone." Bash smiled, bending back down and fingering through an assortment of pebbles. He paused to glance up at her, inviting her to join him in his search.

Mary hesitated. There were times, back at the convent, when she had stomped through mud barefoot and rolled in thick piles of hay; but adults -rather, _queens_ \- did not act in such ways, and digging through stones and sifting through beach sand did not seem appropriate.

Though, it wasn't as if anyone were watching her now… aside from Bash, who certainly wouldn't criticize the action.

Mary stooped quickly to pick up a lopsided stone and examined it critically. "Will this do?"

Bash pressed his hands into his breeches, unbending at the knee, and stared down at Mary's rock with a lopsided smile. Without a word, he reached forward and snatched the stone from her palm before tossing it over his shoulder in a discarding motion. He then placed a new stone within her palm -one that was much more round and smooth- while holding a separate one within his own hand.

"Grasp it with your thumb and middle finger, then firmly hook your index finger along the edge." He instructed, leaning towards Mary while displaying the correct action with his rock. "Your thumb goes on the top of the stone, not around the edge. That's it! Now, stand with your side to the ocean and toss it with an arch."

Feeling confident, Mary threw the rock out towards the ocean with her best effort… and watched as the stone hit the beach, bounced once into the air, and then careened down into the water before sinking to the bottom of the tide.

Mary pressed her hand against her lips as a giggle began to erupt. She glanced to Bash, feeling embarrassed, and was amused to find that he, too, had his mouth slammed together in an effort to contain the rising amusement. Unable to curb herself, Mary dropped her hand and began to burst with rolling laughter, followed shortly after by Bash, who drooped his shoulders low and tossed his head back.

They laughed together for a while, captured within a moment of pure joy, and Mary felt a sudden lightness beginning to take hold of her chest.

Bash glanced to her as his steady chuckles began to fade, and he smiled softy. Mary returned the smile tentatively.

"Try again," Bash said, handing her the other stone while nodding with encouragement.

Mary held out her palm, obediently. This time, instead of dropping the stone like he had before, Bash gently took her hand within his own and adjusted her fingers to properly grip the rock. As he moved her fingers around the stone, Mary's senses were overwhelmed by the scents of pine and cinnamon that mingled within Bash's tousled mess of hair. She breathed him in as he moved his hands up to her shoulders, guiding her body to flank the ocean, and she felt herself beginning to lightly flush.

Having grown up being surrounded by nuns, Mary hadn't been handled by a boy -or, rather, _man-_ in her entire life, and it disconcerted her greatly.

"There," said Bash, at length, stepping back and taking his alluring scent with him, "toss it."

With little hesitation, Mary drew her hand back, inhaled deeply, and chucked the stone. It skipped four times, delicately curving up and down with the waves, then settled into the abyss of the ocean.

Mary clasped her hands, releasing a loud clap, and beamed. "That _is_ fun."

"You're a natural." Bash said, stepping forward and nudging her good naturedly with his shoulder. She gave him a smile in turn, catching the playful look within his eye and the small grin that began to tug at his lips. Mary appreciated Bash's carefree mien, and his ability to treat her -even if just for a moment- like she _wasn't_ the Queen of Scotland. She felt rather normal for a brief, fleeting amount of time...

The sound of conversating voices, somewhere far beyond them, broke the trance.

Bash crinkled his nose as he took a guarded step back, distancing himself from her. "I'll… leave you to it."

Mary watched as the king's bastard then bowed forward, displaying his genteel knowledge for anyone who may have been silently observing them, then turned to leave. She held back a wince as she watched him depart before turning back to face the loneliness of the ocean once again.

It wasn't until much later, when Mary had retired back into the castle herself, that she allowed Bash's pledge to fully sink in.

… _then I will make it my personal duty to see to it that you laugh and have fun, every day_...

Mary ran the tips of her fingers along the stone castle walls as she strolled the hallways in silence. Her lips stretched up into a smile as she thought of Bash; the only person within the royal family to offer her kindness since her arrival – bastard, or not.

The sound of a slamming door jarred Mary from her thoughts, causing her to pause in her travel. She was shocked to discover Kenna, her childhood friend and lady-in-waiting, emerging from around the corner. Her sand-colored hair was a disorderly mess, her dress was wrinkled and uneven, and her lips were uncharacteristically plump.

Despite her appearance, however, Kenna seemed enthusiastically giddy.

"Where have you been?" Mary demanded, airily. Her question echoed down the quiet hallway.

Kenna stopped short, gasping as she viewed Mary at the opposite end of the hallway.

"I-I've been looking for you," the girl stammered, but recovered quickly as she trotted towards Mary, "don't you look happy? What has placed such a smile on your face?"

Mary blinked in consideration of the complexity of her answer. What could Kenna possibly mean by _such a smile_? Had Mary's misery been _so_ apparent that even the slightest hint of joy brought forth waves of suspicion? Or, was her friend suggesting that the smile -in itself- seemed to be hiding a much different feeling? Without further hesitation, Mary gestured her hand towards the hallway's tall windows and commented, "the gorgeous weather, of course."

Kenna quirked a brow, steeling a glance towards the windows with apparent disbelief, then smiled, "of course."

* * *

**B** ash burst into his younger brother's private quarters, after convincing the guard outside that he _did not_ need announcing, and held the door open as a short, brunette-haired girl shifted her way past him; exiting the room with apparent embarrassment. He watched after her thoughtfully as the girl fled down the stairs, feeling a pang of guilt beginning to rise, then flicked his eyes back into the prince's quarters to shoot his young brother a calculating look.

Francis, the Dauphin of France, sat merrily beneath the protection of white sheets, with his arms folded neatly behind his blonde head of hair. He was resting, bare chested, against the grand wooden headboard of his bed; looking plainly amused as he stared back at Bash. This was, oddly, a situation in which the brothers found themselves trapped within _quite_ often. Whenever Francis went 'missing', it was Bash's responsibility to locate the Prince of France and bring him forth to whatever event or meeting or party that was missing his young attendance.

This time, however, Bash sought out his younger brother for his _own_ selfish reasons.

"You look puzzled, Brother." Francis said, rather smug.

Bash closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a span, running his tongue across the front of his teeth. "I spoke with Mary."

Francis barked out a humorless laugh. "Oh?"

Bash narrowed his eyes upon the young prince while taking a few tentative steps towards the center of the room. It was cool and clean within Francis' quarters -save for the piles of clothes strewn lazily across the floor from his apparently rapid undressing- yet Bash could feel a heat beginning to travel, slowly, up the back of his neck. "Francis, what are you doing?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary." Francis replied quickly, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. When Bash showed no sign of amusement, Francis continued on, "would you like details?"

Bash folded his arms at his chest, watching as Francis proceeded to fling his legs over the side of the bed while stretching his naked back in an arch.

"You're going to continue to act like this? Even now that Mary is around?"

Francis groaned and rolled his eyes. "I am the future King of France, and I will do as I please."

"At what cost?" Bash hissed, feeling oddly torn.

There were few times when Bash did not support Francis' in his endeavors, much like how Francis was often more-than-willing to aid Bash in his foolish ploys. They had grown together, looked after one another, played together, laughed together, and helped shape each other into the men that they had become.

It was unusual for Bash to stand before Francis -as he did now- and question him.

Francis tilted his head to the side, blinking back at his older brother with rising confusion. "Why does it concern you so?"

Bash ran his hand across his face, rubbing his thumb and index finger deep into the sockets of his eyes. He was beginning to wonder the same thing, really...

Then an image of Mary flashed across his mind, and realization dawned.

He dropped his hand and sighed, flicking his gaze back onto his younger brother. "Can you not see that it hurts Mary?"

His brother snorted. "Our arrangement is strictly business."

Francis knelt forward and grabbed his discarded breeches from the floor, then performed a few awkward hops as he pulled them up and onto his legs. As he began to tie the string at his waist into a tight loop, he looked back up towards Bash and continued. "She is a queen. She understands. Besides, we could be married off to other people tomorrow, if it were necessary."

Bash sighed -again- and stooped down to collect Francis' shirt from the floor. He held the garment out to his brother at arm's length while inquiring, gruffly, "do you aspire to be like our father in every way?"

Francis rounded the bed and approached Bash with a wide smile. He then snatched the shirt from Bash and began the process of pulling his arms through the sleeves, one at a time, while muttering, "only in the _best_ ways."

Bash's heart fell, somewhere in the vicinity of his boots. He didn't want Catherine's words to be true about Francis; and he refused to stand idly by while his younger brother turned into the mirror image of their father -or _worse_ \- while Mary ended up in the same situation as his mother.

"Little Brother," Bash started, catching Francis by the arm as the prince headed for the door.

Francis turned, eyes ablaze with a look full of warning. "I am finished with your inputs, for the day."

Bash's jaw tightened, and he swallowed a thickness that had suddenly gathered within his throat. Without an utterance, he released Francis' arm and watched as the Prince of France stormed out into the hallway, vanishing into the shadows beyond his quarters.


	2. To See You Smile

  
_You make me smile like the sun_  
_Fall out of bed, sing like a bird_  
_Dizzy in my head, spin like a record_  
_Crazy on a Sunday night_  
_You make me dance like a fool_  
_Forget how to breathe_  
_Shine like gold, buzz like a bee_  
_Just the thought of you can drive me wild_  
_Oh, you make me smile_  
  
_-Smile,_  
_Uncle Kracker_

 

* * *

  
  
**T** he sounds of clashing wood and dancing feet echoed throughout the small, enclosed courtyard of the castle.  
  
King Henry advanced on his eldest son with precision and great strength, swinging and slashing his wooden sword aggressively -left, right, center- while moving with a deadly rhythm that he had perfected through countless battles and tireless practice. Bash was quick to parry and deflect his father's blows with his own wooden sword, laughing loudly as Henry attempted to fleetly stab at his son's chest.  
  
The king had great technique in sword fighting to be sure, but it was Henry who had taught Bash how to battle with a blade; firstly, as a young boy, and then well into his bastard son's adult years. As such, their practice fights always proved to be long, vicious, and well-matched – to say the very least.  
  
"You will have to do better than that, Father!" Bash teased, jumping to the side as the King of France plunged at him.  
  
Henry barked out a laugh that dripped with mild irritation as he slid to the left, narrowly avoiding Bash's sword as it sliced towards his right thigh. The king -noticing his chance, within that brief moment- then swung his weapon down around his bastard son's ears with a heightened aggression.  
  
Bash caught the attack with his wooden blade, holding his father off in a sudden battle of strength. His muscles screamed and ached as he tensed and pushed against the older man's vigor; and Bash could see the flash of victory deep within Henry's piercing eyes as his sword pressed closer and closer towards his son's face. Then, unwilling to give up _just_ yet, Bash released a warrior-like cry while shoving his father away with all of his might. This caused Henry to take a stuttering step backwards, kicking up a cloud of loose dirt around his booted heels in a thick flurry. The king then squared his shoulders and nodded to his son in a tired show of approval.  
  
Bash took advantage of the pause in their battle to suck air deep into his tired lungs as a single bead of sweat traveled down from his temple, colliding into the dark stubble that lined his tensed jaw. He dropped his sword down to his side, releasing the tight grip that his gloved fingers held around the wooden hilt, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy a cool breeze as it flitted through the relaxed fabrics of his shirt.  
  
A sudden chatter of feminine voices sounded off to the right, causing Bash's ears to twitch in response. He turned his attention up towards the upper levels of the castle with curiosity, catching sight of Mary and her ladies-in-waiting as they made their way into the center of the castle; using the outer hallways of the courtyard as a quick shortcut to their destination.  
  
The Queen of Scotland hesitated in her travel, as if she could feel Bash's eyes, causing her trail of friends to pause alongside her.  
  
Bash found himself momentarily distracted as his gaze locked with Mary's; and the beat of his heart began to quicken beyond that of the exertion he had just put it through. Despite the watchful eyes of her friends -and, despite the eyes of his father- Bash smiled; and he was pleased to see Mary return the gesture, sweetly.  
  
"Again?" Henry called out, re-capturing Bash's attention.  
  
With a steady inhale, Bash brought his sword up into the ready stance. "Again."  
  
Henry lunged quickly, smacking his sword against Bash's with a loud crack. Bash pushed against the king's sword, capturing their blades together, and grit his teeth as Henry released their locked weapons and swung at his midriff. Bash hopped backwards, bending slightly forward to avoid the swing of his father's sword, and then spun completely around to block a third blow.  
  
They continued like this, back and forth, sparring for several minutes.  
  
Finally, Bash weakened Henry down onto one knee, having the upper-hand advantage of attacking his father from a higher stance … but the king was quick to respond. In one smooth motion, Henry slapped Bash's swing away, and kicked his bastard son squarely in the stomach. Bash fell back into the dirt, grunting as the air completely evacuated his lungs.  
  
He laid there for a moment, flat and defeated, staring into the opening above him where the fall afternoon's sky colored a blue canvas behind the distant clouds. He chuckled, in spite of his mild embarrassment, and slammed his gloved hand against the ground with disappointment.  
  
As he captured his breath, Bash could hear the gathered group of observing ladies muttering amongst themselves with concerned tones; but the sound of his father's sudden laughter drifted up into the higher levels of the courtyard, drowning out all other voices.  
  
"Your mind is elsewhere!" Henry said, offering his son an outstretched hand. Bash took hold of his father's forearm, allowing the king to help him up and onto his feet while brushing his back and shoulders free from dirt. "Is it slender Lady Charlotte or plump Lady Isabelle with the breasts like two pigeons, huh?"  
  
Bash shot his father a cheeky smile. "If I told you, you might poach. You have a liking for pigeon, as I recall."  
  
"A son after my own heart." Henry jested, rubbing a hand over his face. Sweat glistened against his balding head, brightly glancing the glow of the afternoon sun off into several different directions. "You're the lucky one, you know? Uncommitted to any alliances or engagements."  
  
_Hardly_ , Bash thought to himself, unable to control the flick of his eyes as he searched the upper levels of the castle for Mary. He managed to catch sight of her, as she turned to leave; and he watched with interest as Lady Lola gently urged her queen along with an air of importance.  
  
"I'm not so sure." Bash rebutted, once he was certain that Mary and her ladies had traveled far enough from hearing. "Being engaged to a beautiful queen doesn't sound so awful to me."  
  
"Ah, that girl is off-limits to you, Bash!" Henry said quickly, gesturing towards the area in which Mary had been standing. "If you fancy one of her ladies as a wife, however, I can make it so."  
  
_Fancy one of her ladies?_ Bash bit down on the inside of his lip to suppress the rising laughter. He certainly did not need his father's assistance in finding a wife – if ever he chose to pursue such an ordeal. In truth, Bash had never even considered marriage. He was married -in a sense- to the wild; and he was committed to his love of freedom. Any time that Bash had pictured a 'wife', he pictured a prison cell; and there was no woman within France that gave him reason to feel otherwise.  
  
Well, no woman that was _eligible_.  
  
This sudden thought gave Bash pause.  
  
Then, without warning, Henry began swinging his sword once again. The king came in high, as he had before, slashing down towards the top of his son's head. As if following some deep instinct, Bash parried his father's swings by jabbing his sword upward and away, then swiftly used the hilt of his fake sword to knock the air free from the king's lungs by jabbing the handle into the center of his chest. Henry gasped, taking a step back, and furrowed his brow as Bash lifted the sharp end of his sword up into his father's throat.  
  
As usual, Bash had taken an example from one of his father's attacks and improved upon it. And -for a moment- Bash swore the King of France looked at him as if he were greatly impressed.  
  
With a smile, Bash finally answered his father. "That won't be necessary, Father; I prefer the hunt."  
  
"Very good, very good." Said Henry in a sharp tone, tossing his sword to Bash with a smirk. "Clean up. I have business to attend to."  
  
Bash caught his father's sword and nodded, waiting until the king was assuredly gone before allowing himself to relish within the joy of his small victory.

 

* * *

  
  
**M** ary's private quarters were always a comfortable and safe escape for herself and her friends; proving to be the perfect room for them to gather within whenever they wished to speak freely amongst themselves. On this particular afternoon, they found themselves collected around the large fireplace within her quarters, all seated atop her finely decorated couches and armchairs in separate but intimate arrangements.  
  
Greer, a wealthy daughter to a Scottish mining family, sat on the ground with her legs folded beneath her. Aylee, a well-off Scottish girl of title, was perched comfortably within the armchair behind Greer, maneuvering fancy braids into the back of her friend's long blonde hair. Kenna, another titled and rich lady of Scotland, sat sideways within a chair opposite Aylee with her legs hanging lazily over the edge of the armrest, swinging her knee-high stocking back and forth. Lastly, Lola, an upscale daughter of yet another titled family of Scotland, sat alongside Mary atop the plush couch, staring with amusement into the cracking flames of the hearth.  
  
"Alright, Kenna it's your turn," said Mary through a bout of laughter, flashing her gaze onto Kenna, "not your first, but your best kisser."  
  
Kenna bit down onto her lip, glancing between each of the girls in turn, before shyly confessing, "it was a man, not a boy."  
  
Mary could not contain the widening of her eyes as she exchanged a look of mirrored confusion with Lola. "Who!? You must tell us!"  
  
Kenna giggled and dipped her head, avoiding the pressing eyes of her friends. "All I'll say is that there's no point in waiting for boys our own age, who have no idea what they're doing!"  
  
"Well, I would accept my first kiss from a man or a boy!" Interjected Greer, glancing up towards the ceiling with tightly-clasped hands as if she were speaking to God himself. "Please?"  
  
They all shared a laugh and Aylee reached forward to place a reassuring hand atop Greer's narrow shoulder. Each girl then glanced expectantly towards their queen and Mary's stomach dropped with anticipation.  
  
"I presume that Francis has kissed you by now, has he not?" Asked Lola, with a slight incline of her head.  
  
Mary furrowed her brow and drooped her shoulders. She, too, would have presumed that Francis and herself would have shared a kiss by now; or at least formed some design of a friendship. But Francis and his father, the King of France, were in no rush to form an alliance with Scotland until it made sense politically. And, as could be expected in such a circumstance, Francis had kept his respective distance from Mary… and had shared his friendliness with other ladies.  
  
Still, politics aside, it would have been nice to have a connection with her betrothed. Mary scrunched her nose and sighed heavily, "oh – no. He hasn't."  
  
"No?" Inquired Kenna, shifting her legs to the front of her seat and scooting towards the edge of the cushion. "I thought for certain that he had kissed you yesterday, when you were wandering the halls with that delighted smile…"  
  
Mary felt her ears grow hot. "I told you; I had just been out, enjoying the day by the ocean."  
  
"Alone?" Lola gasped, crinkling the freckles along her nose in dismay. "Mary, you shouldn't be out and wandering the grounds by yourself. Do you not remember what Colin said?"  
  
Even now, Mary could hear the sorrow within Lola's voice as she spoke Colin's name. When the girls had first arrived at French Court, Lola had expressed her feelings for Colin, and informed her friends of how she had promised to wait for him in hopes of an eventual courtship. Unfortunately, their love story had little time to flourish before Colin was -as defended by _him_ \- forced into betraying his queen, jailed, escaped, and later found murdered within the woods.  
  
"I wasn't alone," Mary defended, glancing down towards her hands, "I was with Stirling. And Bash."  
  
Her ladies-in-waiting all exchanged telling looks, and Kenna pressed her lips together in a poor attempt at containing her rising smirk.  
  
"What?" Mary inquired, bouncing her eyes between the four of them. Each girl winced and avoided her gaze, causing her to question them even further. "Do none of you trust him?"  
  
"We trust him," Aylee began, slowly, "it's just…"  
  
Mary drew in a frustrated breath as Aylee trailed off, and she looked to Lola with eyes that demanded an answer.  
  
Lola blinked, glancing towards the flames of the fire once again. "He has a reputation. We all heard him today, talking with his father – the same father that he shares with your betrothed."  
  
Mary's mouth twitched as she bit back the rising desire to defend Bash. She had no true understanding of what her friends feared. She had grown up in a convent -yes- but she was no fool. She knew how to identify real problems when they were present… and befriending the king's bastard son seemed hardly an issue. Bash had been kind and honest with her; and he may have been the only person to give true insight on Francis' odd behavior towards her. If nothing else, Bash would prove to be an ally in the years to come – if she were to still marry Francis, God willing.  
  
There was a long pause, then Kenna enlightened, "he certainly is handsome though, isn't he?"  
  
Greer's brows shot up, Aylee's mouth dropped open, Lola's head snapped, and Mary's breath stopped short. It felt an odd thing to say, given the conversation, but it caught each of them off-guard nonetheless.  
  
"Bash!?" Lola demanded of Kenna, breaking the silence.  
  
"Of course, _Bash_! Who else would I be referring to?" Snapped Kenna, noticeably flushing.  
  
Mary froze and straightened. She ran her hands nervously through the silk cloth of her maroon and gold dress, feeling the pressure of Kenna's question as if it were a knife held to her throat. "I … hadn't noticed."  
  
_Of course_ , that was a lie. She had noticed. It was impossible not to notice. Bash was every bit as handsome as the sky was plainly blue; and certainly, he knew it as well.  
  
The door to Mary's chamber suddenly burst open, causing each of the ladies to jump slightly -as if they had been discussing something quite scandalous- and they each turned expectantly towards the sound. One of the guards who was stationed outside of Mary's door entered casually, staring at the Queen of Scots with apologetic eyes.  
  
"Your Grace, Lord Sebastian requests an audience."  
  
For a moment, Mary swore that she had misheard him; and if it hadn't been for the equally shocked looks displayed across her friends faces, she wouldn't have believed it.  
  
"Well that's fortuitous…" mumbled Greer, glancing back towards Aylee.  
  
Mary rose to her feet and turned to fully face the guard, speaking before any more commentary could be made by her ladies. "Let him in."  
  
The guard nodded and backed out of the room. A moment later, Bash entered, and Mary felt her heart leap into her throat at the sight of him. He had cleaned himself up since sparring with his father. A velvet-looking button-up jacket replaced his former white shirt, and his breeches and boots had been replaced with more castle appropriate attire. He looked, in truth, more like a king's son than Mary had ever seen him look before.  
  
"Ladies," said Bash with practiced ease, bowing before them, "you are all a vision."  
  
"And non-too eager to join your list of achievements." Lola braved, causing Mary's eyes to snap onto her with heavy disapproval.  
  
"Each of you is far and well beyond my reach, I assure." Bash smirked, quick to counter Lola's wit. "I could only aspire to wed a woman half as fair, someday."  
  
Greer, Aylee, and Kenna all laughed whole-heartedly, flattered, and Lola noticeably relaxed while cracking a small smile.  
  
"Do you flirt with everyone?" Inquired Mary, searching Bash's face.  
  
Bash smiled, widely, and there was a hint of challenge beyond his pale eyes. "Absolutely everyone."  
  
Mary brushed her tongue along her teeth and shook her head in amusement. "What brings you, Bash?"  
  
The king's bastard rounded his shoulders and straightened. "Your Grace-"  
  
"Mary." Mary corrected, quirking a brow.  
  
Mary caught sight of Lola's frown out of the corner of her eye as she glanced beseechingly towards Kenna, who also looked perturbed. Bash's Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed down what Mary assumed was going to be a small laugh, at her friend's expense. Her ladies _certainly_ were not masking their opinions very successfully.  
  
" _Mary_ ," he began again, "there's a matter that needs your tending to. Urgently."  
  
Mary's eyes narrowed curiously. Bash held her within his gaze and smiled, a playful eagerness tugging at the corners of his lips.  
  
"Very well." Mary agreed, at length, turning towards her friends. Lola looked as if she were going to challenge Mary's sudden decision, but the Queen of Scots spoke hurriedly over her chance of rebuttal. "I will see all of you at the party this evening."  
  
She was, of course, referring to the dinner party that Catherine had insisted on throwing for their English guests. The same dinner party, in fact, that had the young Queen of Scotland slightly on edge for the better part of the day. It was a difficult issue to swallow; knowing that she would be breaking bread with one of her greatest enemies in only a few short hours… but, such was the way of political alliances. It did not matter that the English radicals had made several attempts on her life. It did not matter that she was a threat to their current rule. And, it did not matter that their presence frightened Mary, greatly. She needed to mask any and all of her fears for the sake and protection of Scotland – and for the sake and protection of _France_.  
  
Bash stepped to the side, like a gentleman, and waved his arm to the right in a manner that urged Mary to exit first. She obliged, shooting her friends a lasting look before leaving them to their undoubted whispers full of assumptions.  
  
The king's bastard was quick on her heels, falling into stride alongside her as they made their way swiftly down the hallways of the castle. They strolled quickly at first, but soon Bash's feet took on a more laxed cadence as he silently motioned for her to turn down each new corridor with a smile and an open palm. He navigated them through the royal halls with a placid air to his movement, even pausing on occasion to acknowledge the familiar faces of servants and guards as they passed him by.  
  
For something that he had claimed to be so urgent, Mary considered, Bash certainly was taking a tranquil approach to their travel.  
  
After a span of silence, and what seemed an eternity of long, aimless walking, Mary decided it was time that she asserted herself. "Are you well, Bash?"  
  
Bach glanced to her and brightened, inclining his head. "Quite."  
  
With a furrowed brow, Mary trudged on. "Has something happened in Scotland?"  
  
The king's bastard inhaled deeply, averting his eyes up towards the castle's tall, elaborate ceilings. "Not that I am aware."  
  
Mary stared into the side of Bash's face with a guarded, somewhat suspicious look. "Is there something the matter with Francis?"  
  
Apparently enjoying this sudden game of guessing, Bash wet his lips and brought his attention back down from the rafters. He stole a glance at Mary, clearly entertained, and smirked, "certainly not."  
  
"Is it…" she dropped her tone as a man of class strolled busily past them, hoping to avoid his eavesdropping ears, "the English?"  
  
"No, no." Bash quickly assured with a chuckle.  
  
Frustration mounted as they moved into a more desolate area of the castle where far less guards, servants, and royals wandered. In truth, Mary rarely traveled into this section of the royal halls as it was an area designed to house guests and travelers; and she had yet to encounter a visitor that she cared to call upon on a regular basis. At present, the only visitors within the castle were a few English diplomats, who had escorted and aided in the arrival of Francis' younger brother's betrothed, Madeline, to French Court.  
  
But why on earth would Bash bring her into the most isolated area of the castle?  
  
_He has a reputation…_  
  
Mary's heart sank as a chilling thought occurred, and she paused. Her friend's warnings from before came rushing forward in full force, circling within her mind and securing her feet into the tiled floor. Bash certainly was acting strange, and she wasn't sure that she should trust this mysterious side of him…  
  
"What is so urgent then, Bash?" She demanded, folding her arms at her front as her sudden flash of irritation grounded her even further.  
  
Bash paused as well, a few strides ahead of her, and turned with a quirked brow. "Do you not trust me, Mary?"  
  
She did trust him. And, perhaps that was the problem.  
  
"I do… I-I want to." Mary muttered, unconvincingly even to her own ears, while tightening her arms around herself.  
  
In truth, she still didn't know who she could trust within French Court. All she knew, in this moment, was that every bone within her body screamed at her to trust Bash; despite his strange demeanor and -perhaps even- her logic.  
  
"Allow me to ease your caution," Bash began, turning fully to face Mary before walking towards her with an intenseness held in his eyes that she had not seen before. Though his face was serious, his voice rang out soft and kindly, "you have nothing to fear with me. I would never do anything to harm you. Ever. You are the future queen of France, and my little brother's fiancée… and I consider you a friend."  
  
Mary softened and drew her gaze down onto the floor. Once Bash was within arm's reach of her, he dipped his head slightly forward so that their faces were even, willing her to look at him. His eyes were firm yet gentle as they searched hers, and his smile was back in full force as he said his next words.  
  
"I would die for you."  
  
Mary flushed for reasons that she didn't understand. This was not the first time that she had been told that men would die for her honor and safety; but there was something different in the way that Bash proclaimed it, as if it were an affectionate promise …  
  
"Let's hope it never comes to that." Mary said slowly, sincerely wishing that her words rang truth.  
  
Bash tilted his head to the left, as if considering this for a moment, then backed away from her and continued his lead down the corridor. "Come, we are almost there."  
  
Mary held down the frustrated sigh that threatened to escape her lips and replaced it, instead, with a smile. She took a few quickened steps to catch up to him, falling once again into stride alongside him, leaving her previous apprehensions far behind. "Where is 'there'?"  
  
Bash shook his head and pressed his fingers into his temple, rubbing as if he were warding off a migraine. Then, with a playfully accusatory tone, he inquired, "do you ruin all surprises? Or only the good ones?"  
  
"Surprises? So, there _isn't_ an urgent matter!" Exclaimed Mary, almost triumphantly. Bash remained silent, avoiding her pressing stare. With a light eye-roll, Mary squared her shoulders and mumbled, " _fine_ – no more questions."  
  
Mary remained silent for the rest of their walk, finally allowing herself to welcome the distraction that Bash was providing.  
  
In the back of her mind, she knew that once nighttime had blanketed the castle and the day was swiftly swept beneath the rug, she would be facing an enemy that she had long evaded. The English diplomats would be cordial to her beneath the French Court's roof -of this she was certain- but, that did _not_ diminish her ever-growing fear of their malice. She could not, and _would_ not, shake the image of a nun -ears bleeding as she foamed aggressively from the mouth- dying in Mary's stead because a planned attack, by the English, had failed.  
  
And, in knowing that, Mary reasoned that she could use a brief break from this reality.  
  
After climbing a winding set of stairs they finally reached a long, empty hallway. It was low-lit with short brass chandeliers and lined with old wooden benches. The corridor was drafty, like much of the castle, but more noticeable due to the lack of bodies traveling throughout it.  
  
Bash stopped at the start of the hallway and turned to Mary with a sideways grin.  
  
"This wing was designed with a special tile in the flooring," he said, gesturing towards the ground, "it's smooth to the touch. No divots across the surface, and there are no large spaces between each piece."  
  
Mary blinked. She glanced down to the ground, staring at the slick tiles at her feet, then brought her eyes tentatively back up towards Bash. She studied his face; starts at his strong jaw and moving up into the corners of his eyes, where small laugh-lines made handsome strokes across his soft skin. "Are you planning to become an artisan of tile?"  
  
Bash chuckled and shook his head. He then bent forward, hooking his palm around the heel of his left boot, and removed it with ease. Mary glanced about her, scanning the empty hallway with surprise. Her ears twitched at the sound of his other boot as it fell onto the floor with a clap, and Bash commanded, suddenly, "remove your shoes."  
  
Mary froze. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I thought there would be no more questions." Bash teased, straightening. Mary challenged him further with her pressing stare, and he continued with a sly grin, "you said that you wanted to have fun."  
  
She could not deny it; she was quite intrigued. And, before she could question his motives -or her own- she slowly began to slip each heeled shoe off of her feet, one after the other.  
  
"Francis and I used to do this as children." Began Bash, kicking his foot across the tile as if he were testing the warmth in a stream of water. Mary rose from her knelt position and studied him with growing anticipation, catching his eye for a moment. She could see, behind his playful smirk, that there was a wild excitement within him, brimming just below the surface.  
  
In a flash, Bash then glanced down the hallway, narrowed his eyes, and took off running at a full-on sprint as Mary watched after him with heightened confusion; hastily trying to put reason to his actions. When he reached the middle section of the long hallway Bash spread his feet wide and steadied his arms out around him, like a set of wings, as he began sliding a great distance down the hallway. He flew past the empty benches as he glided with skill, causing the candles along the chandeliers to excitedly flick the air in his wake.  
  
For a moment, Mary thought him insane.  
  
It wasn't until he came to stop at the other end of the hallway and turned, smiling to her with his charming and infectious grin, when it dawned upon Mary that this was a game. His game. A silly, childish, ridiculous game… but a game, none the less.  
  
"Bash," she began, raising her voice so that her echoing statement would reach his distant ears, "I am not … sliding down the hallway!"  
  
"Are you afraid you will fall?" Bash called back, folding his arms at his chest and leaning his shoulder casually against the wall. Though a great distance stretched between them, she did not miss the challenging gleam within his colorless eyes.  
  
"Wha-no!" Mary called back, rightfully offended. "I have excellent balance! I simply… I am far too mature for this. And a queen!"  
  
"It is alright to admit fear, _Your Grace_. I won't judge you." Bash responded, his teasing tone reverberating off of the walls until it bounced -almost mockingly- around the inside of Mary's head.  
  
Mary paled. She had half of a mind to reach down, grab her discarded shoes, and leave Bash -alone- at the other end of the hallway; returning to the safety of her quarters, and her friends, to continue her preparations for the evening ahead. She may have been young -and almost childlike to some- but she was a queen. She had a reputation to uphold as a leader and a ruler. She had an image to maintain. And yet, facts of nobility aside, something called to her -like a ghost from her past- telling her to indulge in the small, simple joys in life; for they would be few and far between.  
  
Good God.  
  
Without another moment of internal plights, Mary gathered the front of her dress up into her hands and began to run. The light patter of her feet bounced off of the walls and echoed back into the center of her ears, gaining in rhythm as she gained in momentum. Once she was halfway down the hallway she spread her feet and began to slide, taking advantage of Bash's example. As she gained speed, she released her dress from her hands and threw her arms out wide, smiling as the air flew through her dark tendrils in a flurry; and she felt very much like a bird, dipping and soaring through the wind in merriment…  
  
And she knew, in that brief instance, what it must have felt like to be a songbird.  
  
Bash pushed away from the wall and reached out to catch hold of Mary's arm as she slid past him, pulling her to an easy stop. The young Queen of Scot's couldn't contain the gasping laughter that burst past her lips as she looked to him – and she was amused to find that he looked shocked by her bravery, despite his earlier taunting.  
  
"I cannot believe that you brought me here to do _this_!" She giggled, brushing a dark strand of hair free from her face as she glanced back down the hallway from whence she came. She hadn't felt this liberated in a long, long time; and, for a precious moment, she had forgotten that she was queen of _anything_.  
  
"Yes, well," Bash started, recapturing her gaze with a small and somewhat coy grin, "to see you smile is to feel the sun."  
  
Mary opened her mouth to respond – but before the words could form within her mouth, Bash slid his hand down and caught her hand within his own, grasping it tightly; causing Mary's stomach to knot in a way that she'd never felt. However, before she could analyze the sensation, Bash took off running once again, this time pulling her along with him. They began to slide, this time alongside each other, flying rapidly towards their scattered shoes at the other end of the hall.  
  
Mary let out a small laugh as Bash reached for her waist, pulling her into a circle that spun them around, several times, until they came to an abrupt stop. For a moment they stood, gasping lightly for air as the thrill of their game flowed through them in rolling waves.  
  
They were very close, practically breathing in each other's air, and Mary was once again overwhelmed by Bash's scent of pine and cinnamon; only, this time, she could imagine fresh air and far off places as she allowed it to wrap around her senses. Mary studied him for a span, taking in the most intricate details of his face...  
  
_"… he certainly is handsome though, isn't he?"_ Kenna's words flashed into her memory with an effect that shifted the earth beneath her.  
  
Suddenly, as if jarred back into reality by an invisible force, Mary became very aware of Bash's hands, as they laid gently upon her hips. The heat of his palms began to burn through the maroon fabric of her dress, and his warmth traveled like molten honey into the pit of her belly.  
  
The unexpected desire to lean into Bash's heat and draw him in closer was almost unbearable…  
  
"What is this?" A voice, not belonging to either of them, asked loudly from across the hall.  
  
Bash was much quicker to react to the sudden inquiry than Mary was, and his head snapped to the left with breakneck speed. His hands fell from her hips swiftly as he took a large step backwards, clearing his throat much louder than one would normally expect – almost as if he were hoping that his sincere surprise would travel within the discordant sound.  
  
"Do you not recall this game, Little Brother?" Bash asked loudly, causing Mary's stomach to drop.  
  
She flicked her eyes onto Francis, heartbeat quickening as she noticed his furrowed brow. He was glancing in confusion between them, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes, as he held his hands loosely around the opening of his gold and black embroidered dress coat. He was, like Bash, dressed appropriately for the dinner party; yet -as per their usual attire- he looked completely opposite his bastard brother.  
  
Francis wet his thin lips, hesitantly. He then raised his chin up and tilted his head to the side, calling back, "I… do."  
  
Then, in an act that truly surprised Mary -and, as evident on his face, Bash as well- Francis leaned forward and began to remove his heavy boots, dropping them to the ground with a loud thud.  
  
Mary could not contain the smile that spread across her lips as the Dauphin of France then ran and slid to them, much like Bash and herself had done before. Francis caught hold of his brother's outstretched hand as he arrived; and Mary could see a momentary childlike smile exchanged between them as their hands clasped.  
  
Bash chuckled, patting his younger brother on the shoulder before releasing his grip on Francis' hand. "You're not as fast as you used to be, Francis."  
  
Francis barked out a laugh, shooting Bash a toothy grin.  
  
The French heir then looked to Mary, with a softness that she had not seen in days; and it bled hope into her beating heart. Their last private conversation, a few days prior, had ended with Francis informing Mary that he had no intentions of marrying her unless it was right for France. This had, understandably, disheartened her in ways that she'd not known to be possible. Of course, it would be difficult for Francis to end a predetermined engagement… but, he had seemed rather determined to dissolve it, if need be.  
  
Mary ducked her head, avoiding Francis' piercing blue eyes. She could not give in to her hope just yet.  
  
"Do you still suppose that you can beat me to the other end of the hall, Brother?" Said Francis suddenly, twisting his torso to face Bash.  
  
Bash scoffed in response, and rolled his shoulders up and down as if he were preparing for a lengthy battle. "Oh, _absolutely_."  
  
A spark of playfulness ignited within their traded glance, and Francis jabbed a pointed finger at his brother while warning, "no cheating!"  
  
Bash's eyes widened, and he returned the gesture with his own hand.  
  
"You were always the cheater!" Jested the king's bastard, taking a few steps forward and bending lightly at the knee, readying himself at an invisible starting line.  
  
"Mary will be the judge of that." Said Francis, stepping into line alongside his brother and nodding towards the young queen. Mary laughed, once, in response.  
  
"Nonsense – Mary will _join_ us." Bash said while elbowing Francis' arm, forcing him to make room in-between them for the Queen of Scots to slip in.  
  
Mary's eyes bounced from Bash, onto Francis, and then back onto Bash.  
  
_He cannot be serious._  
  
Bash's cool, silvery eyes glanced to her expectantly over his shoulder. Mary felt hard-pressed beneath his stare as he waved his hand forward in an encouraging motion. Her hesitation was fueled by several factors; the strongest one being that she couldn't imagine what someone would think if they were to witness the three of them sliding down the hallway like a group of adolescents… and what if one of her enemies, who they were hosting, were to stumble upon the odd scene?  
  
But, as Bash was clearly beginning to learn, the young queen had never been the type of girl to turn down a challenge; risk or not.  
  
She gathered the fabrics of her dress once again, scooping the soft material into her palms as if she were holding freshly-picked flowers. Francis looked surprised – and yet, at the same time, there was a knowing smile upon his face as Mary settled herself in-between them. Surely, she reasoned, the Daughin could remember their time spent in French Court together as children; when they had been brave, playful, and full of life – sometimes, even, getting into trouble alongside one another.  
  
Mary pressed her lips together as an oddly empowered feeling washed through her. It was a strange sensation, standing in-between Bash and Francis as their eyes both locked onto either sides of her face. There was -in a way- a sense of power to their aligned stance; almost as if the Queen of Scots had an army flanking her on each side.  
  
"One, two… three!"

 

* * *

  
  
**B** ash had completely lost track of time as their game of sliding up and down the hallway finally came to an end.  
  
He glanced up thoughtfully towards his little brother as the Daughin of France straightened from replacing his shoes onto his feet. Bash couldn't deny the swell in his chest as he looked upon Francis, watching with interest as his little brother approached Queen Mary and offered her his arm as she, too, began pulling her heels onto her feet. The smile that stretched across the Queen of Scot's face, as she allowed Francis to help her, put Bash at ease. In truth, after their previous conversation, Bash was beginning to wonder where his little brother's heart was trailing; and he'd feared it was tumbling into a cold, dark place that he would never recover it from.  
  
Now, however, as the trio began to make their way out of the empty corridor, Bash could sense the warmth beginning to return in Francis' heart; and, perhaps, the French heir would begin to put the past behind him, and focus on being happy with his betrothed. It would be a trickling effect, like a flowing stream of hope; for if Francis were happy, then Mary would be happy…  
  
And Mary will stay.  
  
Bash's heart pounded with a heightened ferocity.  
  
He loved Francis; and he had loved Francis from the moment he had set eyes upon him as a crying babe. Bash wanted to believe -no, he had to believe- that his intentions with Mary were fueled only by a powerful, brotherly bond… but, even he could never convincingly lie to himself.  
  
Bash inwardly kicked himself as he fell into stride alongside his brother and Mary, making sure to keep his eyes focused down onto the floor before his feet. There was a part of him -loud and persistent- that reminded him of his place among French Court; and of his place beside the beautiful Scottish Queen. He was _nothing_ -a nobody, in truth- and was only allowed his stature and role among the royals by the good graces of his father. If he were to do _anything_ to jeopardize that…  
  
As they approached the stairway that would lead them down onto the first level of the castle, Francis momentarily halted.  
  
"Do you remember when we slid down the hall and onto the banister?" Francis asked of Bash, snapping his wandering attention back into place. Bash's jaw reflectively tightened as he glanced to Francis with pause. The French heir then flicked his blue eyes onto Mary, who paused slowly between them, and mumbled to her in a teasing tone, "I very nearly thought I was going to die."  
  
Mary giggled at Francis' words, drawing Bash's attention, and the sound of it washed over the king's bastard like a cleansing bath. The young Queen of Scotland liked Francis; and it was written all over her face. She had arrived in French Court prepared to give Francis her heart and soul, no matter what, and her stubborn loyalty would not be swayed by the Dauphin of France's forgivable mistakes of the past.  
  
"You thought that you were going to die?" Inquired Bash of Francis, recollecting upon the day of which his younger brother was referring to. He could see it, as if it were yesterday; two small boys, aged seven and ten, running up the stairs, sliding down the hallway, and jumping onto the banisters as if they were a couple of wild monkeys. Bash laughed at the thought, reminiscing, "Catherine almost had me beheaded when she caught us!"  
  
Francis ran his hand along the banister as the trio descended the stairs, shaking his head with a laugh. "You were always coming up with the most ridiculous games."  
  
"That doesn't sound like you _at all_ , Bash." Mary chimed in, sarcastically.  
  
"I am duty-bound to the both of you. I am simply keeping your lives entertaining." Bash said with a mock-bow, causing Francis and Mary to laugh good-naturedly.  
  
There was a sense of camaraderie hanging in the air between the three of them, and it was a feeling that Bash imagined he could get used to… if he weren't allowed to enjoy any other feelings.  
  
"Hold on," Francis said, once they had all reached the bottom of the stairs. Bash and Mary stopped in their tracks, each glancing to him curiously, before Francis grinned to Mary and said, "your hair looks as if – well, as if you've been sliding down the hallways all afternoon."  
  
Mary bit down onto her lower lip as a shy smile stretched across it, and Francis reached forward to gingerly tuck a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear.  
  
Bash pressed his mouth into a hard, protective line; hoping to conceal the feeling of envy that threatened to crack through his stoic demeanor. He wanted to tear his eyes away and continue walking; leaving Mary and Francis alone in their moment of courtship…  
  
But he knew, in that moment, that he couldn't walk away. He needed to witness it. He needed to be reminded that Mary was untouchable. He needed to accept that she belonged with Francis.  
  
"Would you allow me to accompany you to the party this evening?" Francis asked lowly, pulling his hand slowly away from Mary's face and leaving her somewhat breathless.  
  
Bash noticed the slight swell of Mary's lower lip as she released it from its hold between her teeth.  
  
"I would be honored." She replied, bowing her head forward. Francis watched her with gentle eyes, seeming pleased with her response.  
  
"Excellent. We need to show the English that Scotland and France are a united front. And…" Francis trailed for a moment, twisting his mouth into an embarrassed grin, "it wouldn't hurt for us to begin acting like an engaged couple – or, at least, friends."  
  
"Friends?" Mary echoed, receiving Francis' poor attempt at flattery with grace as she laughed. "Is that what we are now?"  
  
"Well, it's a good place to start, if there's to be any real chance between us." Said Francis, with a lightness that flowed smoothly throughout his sincere words.  
  
"Yes, it is a good place to start." Mary agreed.  
  
"Bash will surely be there, too – won't you, Brother?" Francis inquired, reeling Bash into the conversation as if he were a dog being offered a bone.  
  
Bash was silent for a span, recalling the last party that they had all attended.  
  
As if reliving it, the image flashed before his face of Mary and her friends all playfully dancing in the center of the dance floor, twirling and spinning beneath the falling feather's that had been dropped from the ceiling. Bash had found himself completely lost within the way that the young Scottish Queen whirled around; with her dress fluttering around her as if she were a blooming flower and her hair flowing in a way that seemed to create the roaring winds of winter itself. She was everything, in that moment.  
  
Everything that he would never have.  
  
Finding his voice, Bash smiled. "You know me, Little Brother. I always attend events where there's wine, food, and lovely maids."  
  
"Is that so?" Mary challenged, raising her brows with fake surprise.  
  
Bash opened his mouth to respond -perhaps, even, to _defend_ his pride- but it was Francis who spoke in his stead. "You should have seen him at the spring festival last year. There were two ladies, Lady Beatrice and Lady Francine, who were vying over Bash's affection the entire night. We were all gathered around the dance floor, when-"  
  
"My Lord!"  
  
A voice called out, cutting Francis' words short like a sword to a tightly strung rope. With mild irritation, the Dauphin of France turned to acknowledge the fast-approaching guard, whose metal boots cracked loudly against the tile flooring as he moved with blaring haste.  
  
Bash swallowed, roughly, as a foreboding feeling began to rise from the center of his chest.  
  
With a breathy gasp, the guard bowed before Francis. "Pardon me, but we found a woman running at the perimeter of the woods. She's had quite a fright. Her carriage was overrun by bandits… and she's asking for you."  
  
Just then, as if on cue, the castle's main doors swung open with a loud bang, and a sea of servants and guards came rushing in. Among them, there was a girl who plainly stuck out as someone of wealth due to her bright, beautiful attire; a long, cream colored gown matched with a green shawl that shimmered with flecks of silver. She had flowing golden hair, a pale complexion, and piercing blue eyes that searched the halls desperately for a familiar face. She looked terrified and exhausted, and the dirt at the base of her elegant gown proved that she had been wandering on foot for a while.  
  
When her searching gaze finally landed upon Bash's younger brother, the girl gasped in relief; and Bash recognized her through the dismay.  
  
Olivia.  
  
"Olivia." Francis breathed, giving audible life to Bash's realization.  
  
Without a moment's hesitation, the French heir rushed to Olivia's side, pulling her into his arms and cradling her against his chest.  
  
"Francis!" Olivia exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck while leaning into his embrace. After a moment she pulled away, staring up at Francis with glistening, tear-stricken eyes, "we were attacked! They killed my servant, right in front of me, dead!"  
  
Francis took Olivia's face within his hands and shushed her, whispering to her in hushed tones that could not reach Bash and Mary's ears.  
  
"That poor girl," Mary sounded at his side, clasping her hands at her front, "who is she?"  
  
Dread curled within Bash's throat, like a poisonous snake. He watched in silence as Francis ran his hand across Olivia's disheveled hair -almost adoringly- causing the king's bastard to internally wince.  
  
"She's Olivia D'Amencourt," Bash began finally, still unable to tear his eyes away from the scene ahead, "her family lived at court for a time. She left a few months before your arrival. I had assumed that she would not return."  
  
"Why would she not return?" Mary asked, diligently.  
  
"She left for an offer of marriage. Returning here would - _ah_ …" Bash trailed, knowing that he would have to choose his following words with care. Despite his efforts, they still burned as they tumbled past his lips, "conflict with that."  
  
"Conflict with her marriage…" Mary repeated. Bash could feel the moment that realization reared its ugly head within the Queen of Scot's mind, clouding the air between them like a thick, ominous fog. Mary sighed heavily before slowly asking, "that's her, isn't it? The girl that Francis loved?"  
  
Bash was silent as Francis suddenly whisked Olivia away, leading the shaken girl gently down the hallway with one arm draped across her narrow, shaking shoulders.  
  
Vaguely alarmed by his younger brother's lack of decorum, Bash shifted his weight beneath him uncomfortably as he considered Mary's inquiry. He very much wished that he could withdraw his confessions from the day before, when Mary had pressed Bash for details about his brother's complicated past…  
  
"Bash, it's alright. You can tell me."  
  
Bash inhaled and squared his shoulders, tearing his eyes off of Francis and Olivia's retreating backs, and shifting them -with force- onto Mary. He then spoke, with a carefully toneless voice, "yes. Francis loved her."  
  
Mary inhaled a shaky breath at his side as she stared into the crowd of flustered servants and guards who buzzed with gossip and hearsay. After a span, she whispered, "I see."  
  
Bash's heart plummeted. He could see the hope within Mary's eyes -once vibrant and bright- beginning to disappear, like a slow-fading candle.  
  
"I'm… certain that you have nothing to worry about." He said slowly, offering her a kindly smile.  
  
Mary's gaze suddenly drifted up onto Bash, causing his stomach to flutter and drop.  
  
He swore, for a moment, that there was something hidden behind her deep brown eyes. Something that mirrored Bash's heart. Something that called to him -from a far, _far_ away place- telling him that she was more like him than she would ever be like Francis. Something between them that burned so deeply, Bash would never be able to escape it.  
  
Something _more_ …  
  
"Won't you excuse me?" Mary said suddenly, replacing her shaky breath with a powerful tone that only a queen could successfully display. Her face clouded over into a hard glare, and she tore her eyes away in a flash of anger.  
  
"Mary…" Bash whispered softly, reaching for her… but he drew his hand quickly back as Mary retreated down the hallway, leaving nothing but a cool breeze in her wake.  
  
Bash silently watched as the Queen of Scots departed, wallowing within the sense of shame that lingered heavily between his shoulders.

 

* * *

  
  
**M** ary shut the door to her private chambers behind her, pressing her back heavily against the sturdy wood as her legs threatened to give way beneath her. She felt foolish to have believed -for even a moment- that her and Francis could have had a chance at true happiness. A chance at true _love_.  
  
A soft cough brought her attention to the left, and Mary was surprised to find Lola standing alongside her bed with a pale hand resting against one of the four tall bedposts.  
  
"Lola? What are you still doing here?" Asked Mary, pushing softly away from the door.  
  
"I was concerned for you." Said Lola in a matter-of-fact tone. She held a loose strand of her brown tendrils within her right hand, and was twirling it around her finger absentmindedly as she studied Mary's face. She wasn't showing any signs of concern for Mary's current dilemma; and for that, the Queen of Scotland was thankful. "What was it that needed your attention?"  
  
"Oh – nothing. Bash was just… well." She paused, trying to conjure into words what _exactly_ Bash had done for her on this day. "He's being a good friend. It's difficult to explain."  
  
Lola took a few steps forward, softening as she captured Mary's eyes. "You need to take care with Bash. He has feelings for you."  
  
Mary's jaw fell, almost to the floor.  
  
"Nonsense!" She argued, almost finding humor within the accusation. "You heard him, he flirts with everyone!"  
  
Lola deadpanned. "I heard him. But I also _see_ him – and the way that he looks at you."  
  
Now it was Mary's turn to look impassive. She, too, took a few steps towards Lola, meeting her oldest friend and lady-in-waiting at the center of the large room. The crackling fire at the far end of her private quarters cast dark shadows across the Queen of Scotland's fair complexion. "You're mistaken, Lola. Besides, I am engaged to Francis! I'm committed to that…"  
  
The words burned, even as she spoke them. She _was_ committed to Francis, truly. He, on the other hand…  
  
No. She couldn't think of this now; not with an audience.  
  
"I apologize. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm simply..." Lola began, but Mary's cutting glare stole her breath along with her words. She drooped her shoulders, looking defeated, and gestured towards the vanity at the edge of the room. "Shall I help you get ready for the party?"  
  
Mary's eyes flicked onto the makeup, brushes, and hair pieces sitting stilly upon her vanity, and her heart sank. She couldn't imagine going to the party now. This day had drained far too much from her; and she couldn't celebrate at a time like this.  
  
Besides, she analyzed silently, her escort _surely_ wouldn't be attending, after this evenings most recent events.  
  
"I'm feeling unwell," Mary snapped, harsher than she had intended. Lola's eyes widened -for a second- and then relaxed. "I – I just want to retire for the night. Thank you for your concern. Please inform Queen Catherine that I have fallen under the weather, and that I apologize for my absence."  
  
"Mary, you need to show face with the English-"  
  
Mary was long past delicacy, and snapped, "that will be all, Lola."  
  
Lola hesitated, looking as if she longed to say something more; but the look within Mary's eyes drove her to the doorway where she disappeared beyond it without further hesitation.  
  
Once she was alone, as was signaled by the light thud of her latching door, Mary crossed the floor of her chambers and sat at the edge of her bed. With a shaky inhale, she pulled her knees up to her chest as her long gown fanned out around her like a protective, elegant drape.  
  
A sudden torrent of emotions collided within her, birthing a feeling of pain that she could not control. She wanted to cry, and to hide, and to curl up in the darkest of corners as she mourned the death of her ridiculous childhood dreams.  
  
She thought of her youth at the convent, and how she would pick the flowers in the fields and collect dazzling pebbles along the dirt – imagining that, one day, she would take romantic strolls with Francis and that they would gather these beautiful things together. She then thought of her betrothed, cradling Olivia within his arms; and her wonderful, picturesque, youthful dream was destroyed in the wake of its shadow.  
  
A crumbling pressure tightened within her chest; and Mary felt very broken, foolish, and _alone_.  
  
Then, a spark of something fragile and promising flickered to life among the deluge. A vow, spoken to her on her first day at French Court, quietly chased away the heartache as it reminded her…  
  
_"You are not alone here."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D -falls over- .
> 
> That was a rollercoaster, eh? Tell me what you guys think so far! I would love, love, love to hear your feedback! Tell me what you like, tell me what you hate, tell me what you think I'm doing with my life… well, perhaps not that last one.
> 
> As always, add this to your favorites/alerts if you're enjoying it!
> 
> Love.


	3. If You Wish It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Olivia's arrival/Michaelmas were not at the same time in the show, but from here on out I'm pretty much sticking to my own plot and using pieces of the show to glue it into place. Let me know if it gets confusing… or if you have questions!
> 
> And yes, I am going to just throw this out there before you delve into this chapter; I am 100% making up names of villages and landmarks in this fic. Ha.

_Turn around take it back to yesterday_   
_Now I know everything that I need to say_   
_You're the words on my lips and the melody_   
_You're the key to the door that will set me free_

_So I keep holding on, when the world is falling_   
_Holding on, when the light is calling_   
_Holding on, when forever rolls on through_   
_I'll be holding on to you_

_-Holding On,_   
_Johnny Stimson_

* * *

 

 

**T** he white cloth between Bash's hands steadily became streaked with sticky, dried blood as he rubbed it frantically against his palms; desperately attempting to free his skin from the gory mess that painted and stained his flesh and clothes.

He could feel both sets of his father _and_ Catherine's eyes, as they pierced through him from their perched positions atop their separate thrones. The French King and Queen were adorned in similar attire on this day; both of their shoulders covered with heavy red shawls, hemmed at the neck with thick animal furs and bold, green embellishments. Their golden crowns glinted in the morning sunlight, vividly gleaming in a way that constantly reminded any and every passerby of their royal -and _far_ superior- status.

Earlier that morning, when the sun had only just crested the eastern horizon, Bash and a small group of guards discovered the remains of Olivia's driver and servant within the woods. Their bodies had been strung up and butchered, like a couple of wild animals, in what appeared to be a ritual sacrifice. The arrangement had been uncannily similar the scene that Bash and Francis had stumbled upon when they had discovered Colin's body within the wood several days prior; only, this time, Bash hadn't needed to recite any old pagan rhymes to ward off the villainous vagrants.

Instead, the king's bastard had immediately cut the bloodied bodies down and collected them onto the back of his horse; despite the aggravating warnings from his two accompanying guards.

After the first incident, Bash had assured Francis that the pagan verse he had recited within the woods had merely been a jumbled ballad, pulled from the collections of frivolous riddles and senseless songs that he could vaguely recall from his childhood. And, at the time, Bash had been confident that his younger brother would _never_ bring the matter up again…

Now, however, they had been forced to re-visit the events of that horrific night; banding together to confirm that both the attack on Olivia's carriage and Colin's assault had been conducted by the same group of transients.

So, here the half-brothers stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching as King Henry and Queen Catherine each swallowed the news of Bash's discovery. Internally, both Bash and Francis were hoping that -together- the four of them could develop a plan that would end this whole _gruesome_ ordeal all the sooner.

It was the king who spoke first, running his thumb and index finger against his temples as he eyed the boys with a lifted brow. His gaze eventually shifted fully onto Bash, eyes resting upon him for a span before his complexion darkened with a wash of turmoil. "Tell me if I understand what you've witnessed correctly; you discovered the bodies of Olivia's servant and driver… hanging from a tree, with their throats slit, drained of blood?"

Bash slowly dropped the cloth -which was now _completely_ doused with foreign blood- down to his side. Out of all the places within the kingdom to be currently standing, this was not Bash's first choice. He had never been the type of son who attended royal meetings, and he spent much -if not _most_ \- of his life doing what he could to _avoid_ politics altogether. Still, the king's bastard knew how to treat a diplomatic dilemma with poise – and he understood how to conduct himself when handling delicate matters within the throne room.

With a steady voice that carried strongly throughout the illustrious hall, Bash spoke, "yes, it appeared to be some kind of sacrifice, for ritual purposes."

"I believe that the pagans are behind this, Father. They are luring people in." Francis added, shifting his eyes eagerly between each of his parents.

Bash swallowed thickly as King Henry adjusted loudly within his throne.

"Pagans?" Catherine barked, with a sharp laugh, causing Henry's jaw to noticeably strain as he eyed her with raw vigilance. The queen proceeded to then slap her hand loudly against the thick armrest of her royal throne, clicking her bejeweled rings across the hard, wooden surface. "What do you two know of _pagans_?"

Bash and Francis exchanged a quick look, both uncertain of what to say.

The king, however, did not wait for a response. "I see no logic in rushing to conclusions; this sounds like it was a barbaric attack on a noble woman who traveled with little protection. Nothing more."

Catherine looked pleased, straightening within her seat.

Bash inhaled a sharp breath. Internally, he struggled to tackle down the rising desire to _challenge_ the king and queen, while demanding that they see _reason_ beyond their obvious fears. On the one hand, he understood that such a claim was dangerous, not only for the kingdom but for _himself._ Yet, on the other hand, Bash _also_ understood that evil -such as this- had the power and capability to reach within the French Court's walls if it remained to be left ignorantly disregarded.

Unfortunately, and despite these indisputable facts, Bash understood that it was _far_ beyond his rights to question the finalizing decisions made by the King of France… eldest son, or not.

Francis, however, gripped no such concerns; and the sudden sound of his confident voice brought forth a sense of relief onto Bash.

"This display of slaughter was no different than that of the Scottish boy we discovered in the wood, several days ago." The Dauphin pressed, keeping his tone light and airy.

" _That_ was justice served." Catherine argued, raising her voice as if the pitch of her tone would diminish any further arguments to come.

Feeling bold and growing weary of Catherine and her political games, Bash snapped. "Every man answers to the king, even in death! It is not a commoner's right to determine what is just!"

Catherine's eyes widened in a display of pure agitation. She leaned forward within her throne and quirked her head to the side, practically sucking the air from Bash's lungs like a hungry leech as she stared into him with impassioned ferocity. "Speaking of 'commoner's rights'; shall I remind you of your place among us, Bastard?"

"Enough!" Henry shouted, causing a tense silence to ensue between the four of them.

Bash internally kicked himself while averting his gaze down onto the ground, staring at the smooth, cool tiles below his leather boots. Catherine was right, of course; though it pained him to admit it. Bash had no rights and no authority - _truly_ \- other than the mild respect that his father had demanded he be given within the castle walls.

Even so, there were some things in life that Bash could _not_ easily accept; like his complete lack of power within French Court.

The silence stretched and Bash eventually glanced up, uncertain of what he would find within his father's eyes. He was shocked to discover Henry looking back down at him thoughtfully, with a hint of sadness brimming just below the surface of his gaze. After a span, the French King spoke, in a voice so soft and affable that it shocked both Bash and Francis alike. "I have heard of similar disturbances reaching the towns at the outskirts of our lands. Specifically, within a small village, North of the waterfall at the Bay River."

"I know of this village." Said Bash, this time resolved to keep his temper in check. He twisted his fingers with irritation into the cloth that hung loosely within his left hand; avidly avoiding the French Queen's stare as he could feel it honing sharply into the side of his face.

Suddenly, as if her abrupt understanding of the matter kicked her squarely in the chest, Catherine spun within her seat, eyes burning. "Henry, you can't be serious. You're going to send our soldiers on a wild goose chase after some radicals in the forest? If word of this gets out, there _will_ be panic!"

"No, I am not." Responded Henry, coolly. He leaned back against the cushions of his throne and cleared his throat, seriously contemplating something internally, before snapping his fingers in delight and brightening. "I am leaving it up to Francis, since this seems to be a matter he is passionate about. It will be a good lesson for our future king; regardless of the outcome."

Catherine's uncontainable sound of disgust echoed throughout the throne room in the form of a hack. Bash and Francis exchanged a glance, biting back the pompous smiles that threatened to stretch across their lips. Once they were certain that they had contained their bursting beams of pride, Francis nodded to Bash and flicked his eyes back up onto their father. "I believe it is worth looking into, Father. I will send Bash and a small convoy into this village to investigate the rumors."

"Why not just send Sebastian alone?" Asked Catherine, pursing her lips as she narrowed her eyes upon Bash's face with distaste.

Bash took a breath, steeling himself, before meeting Catherine's stare.

The French Queen smirked, and it looked sharp and dangerous upon her face. Her fingers tensed into fists as her mind began to roll through all of her options in one fell swoop; and Bash swore, for a moment, that she may burst into a million hateful pieces. He challenged her glare, silently willing her to say _one_ more pernicious thing...

Francis took a step forward, shielding Bash from Catherine's eyes while breaking their locked stare. He then spoke, to his mother, through tightly gritted teeth, "I will not send my brother into such a hostile and violent situation without protection!"

Catherine's jaw tensed.

Francis' words had a sobering effect, and -with more effort than he'd care to admit- Bash relaxed. He was used to being the more even-keel brother, between he and Francis, and the king's bastard _hated_ the moments in which Catherine was successful in crawling beneath his skin. It was rare, to be sure, but on the scarce occasion that she _actually_ succeeded at cutting him to the core, Bash _needed_ Francis to step in and calm the rising waves.

Henry raised his hand to silence them, shooting Catherine a cold glare. The queen looked distraught -perhaps betrayed- as she shrank beneath the king's eyes. Henry then leaned his elbow against the armrest of his throne and smiled at his sons, showing too many teeth to be sane. "Very well. Keep this business to yourselves – I do not want this turning into hysteria."

Francis dipped his head forward in a display of appreciation. He then spun about on his heel and caught Bash by the arm, gently leading his older brother out into the corridor beyond the throne room. As they left, they could hear Catherine's hand slapping angrily against her throne; and Bash was glad to be missing out on the uproar that inevitably followed.

They traveled in silence for a while, passing through the busy common room where a gathering of rambunctious English nobles sat, enjoying a late morning's breakfast. Fifteen sets of foreign eyes all trailed warily after the king's sons as the boys moved swiftly through the hallway; and it did not go unnoticed by Bash how they all dropped their once-roaring banter into a low, quiet timbre. And, despite their hushed efforts, he could still hear the accusatory mumbles about France's delicate alliance with Scotland…

_And_ how Francis and Mary did not seem to be as 'tightly-knit' as French Court had led the alliance to believe.

Of course, Queen Mary's absence from the recent party, and Olivia's sudden arrival to French Court, had both bred life into several problematic rumors; and the English diplomats were fixating on the possibility of a broken engagement between the Dauphin and the Queen of Scots.

Francis' fingers, which still clung to Bash's arm, tightened in response to the odious mutters. This, both boys knew, was dangerous. If England had reason to believe that Scotland did not have the backing of France, rumors would spread into theories, and theories would bloom into plans of attack. These reports would not bode well for France, and they _certainly_ would not bode well for Scotland.

Once they were free from unwanted witnesses, Francis pulled Bash into the privacy of the castle's empty study, closing the door behind them with urgency.

Bash moved casually into the center of the room, rounding the large, disorganized desk. He ran his fingers along several books and maps, all messily strewn across the surface of the table, and paused to pick up a blank, rolled-up parchment. He twisted the paper in-between his hands for a span, waiting patiently for Francis to disclose his unusual behavior; but no such explanation ensued.

Eventually, Bash lifted his cool, silver eyes cautiously up towards his brother; and watched in confusion as Francis ran a quaking hand across his pale face. The Dauphin then began to pace back and forth, raking his fingers through his blonde curls with obvious distress.

"You're sour. What is it?" Bash remarked, attempting to sound moderately light-hearted as he dropped the parchment back onto the table with a light _clap_.

Francis glanced to Bash out of the corner of his eye, somberly. "What did you tell Mary about Olivia?"

Bash's brows shot up, and his eyes trailed haltingly after his pacing brother as he contemplated an appropriate answer. In his mind, what Bash _wanted_ to say was, _I told Mary the truth about you and Olivia_. In reality, what he said was, "why would you assume that I told Mary _anything_ about Olivia?"

"For one, Mary was absent from the party last night, if you hadn't noticed." Francis began, pausing to spin around on his heel and jab an accusatory finger in Bash's direction, "also, I _know_ you, Brother. You never cared for Olivia, and you _do_ care for Mary."

For a beat, Bash's throat caught. He didn't _enjoy_ the apparent implication that dripped thickly from his brother's accusatory tone.

"Mary is your betrothed! I only told her that Olivia was your past lover." Bash sighed, and it was a weary sort of sound – almost desperate, in a way. Francis expelled a hiss of breath in response, heavy with disbelief.

In an effort to reign in the vigor, Bash smirked and added, "I never said of _how many_ lovers..."

Francis took a breath, narrowing his eyes. "Don't be an ass! And keep your opinions to yourself."

Bash had no witty reply for that. "Well, forgive me if I overstepped. Is that all?"

"No. Bash," Francis suddenly softened, shifting into a much more delicate approach while simultaneously derailing his older brother. "I know that you have… some kind of a _connection_ with these pagans-"

In a move that instantly silenced Francis, Bash flew around the table at the center of the study, closing the space between them, and hissed, "I do _not_ have a connection with any human sacrifices, Francis!"

" _Be that as it may_ , I will be sending a small convoy along with you. For your protection." Francis continued at a whisper, seemingly unfazed by Bash's outburst, "you interrupted a sacrifice, Bash! I can't imagine that these people, whoever they are, will take kindly to that."

Bash turned away from Francis and glanced down onto the bloodied cloth still hanging loosely within his hands, and a sense of sobering apprehension flowed through him as the Dauphin's words struck a chord. The king's bastard had witnessed _terrible_ things in the past week. Terrible things that - _if_ not handled with _absolute_ care- had the potential to ruin his entire life.

Staring numbly onto the once white fabric while twisting it between the tips of his fingers without mindfulness, Bash respired, "as you wish."

In a flash, Francis moved to Bash's side and placed a heavy hand atop his brother's shoulder, squeezing down onto the dark leather fabric in an act of reassurance. "Take the day to rest, Brother. You will leave tomorrow, at first light."

* * *

**Q** uiet as a shadow, Queen Mary walked alone through the hallways of the castle. The warmth of the mid-morning sun shone pleasantly through the tall windows that lined the corridors, and the young queen was careful to step as she clasped a small cup between her pale, chilled fingers, brimming with rich Venetian coffee.

It was a wonderful feeling to be alone, free from the confines of her private quarters. And, it was a rare occasion, to be sure. Most mornings the corridors of the French Court were abuzz with servants, nobles, and guards – but, today, this was not the case. Today it was quiet. Today it was peaceful. Today there was hope. And today, _unlike_ yesterday, Mary was determined to be strong and unconcerned with matters concerning Olivia and Francis.

Even though, if she were being _truly_ honest with herself, Mary was obviously concerned. _Very_ concerned. Concerned for her future. Concerned for Scotland. And concerned that - _if_ Francis still agreed to their marriage- Mary would lead the same life as Queen Catherine; tied to a king who was free to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted, stringing mistresses and concubines behind him wherever he went…

But, she could not dwell on such things any further. She _wouldn't_. She would distract herself -if she had to- but she _would_ be strong for Scotland, and for her people.

Mary paused in her leisure travels to take a sip of her coffee, while inching her way slowly towards one of the wide, bright windows. She stared, for a span, out onto the empty courtyard beyond, watching as the fall breeze whispered through the leaves and carried off into the distant harbor. Her mind reeled in and out with images of the past; for it had been there -just beyond the circular pond- that Mary had first seen Francis as an adult. He had greeted her, just after she had exited her carriage, presenting himself kindly, with blue, shimmering eyes that were so soft and so familiar; just like she had remembered from her youth. He had been so full of compassion, tenderness, and fun-

The sudden sound of a familiar voice, bidding a door guard farewell, grabbed at Mary's attention, jerking her back into the present.

Blinking back her confusion, Mary glanced down the hallway to her left, catch sight of Kenna…

… as she exited the king's chambers.

_What in God's name…_ With a furrowed brow, Mary approached her wandering friend with peaked curiosity. It wasn't until she noticed the flush of Kenna's skin, and the disheveled manner of her dusty hair, that harsh realization began to take form within the young queen's mind.

"Kenna… what were you doing in the king's chambers?" Asked Mary, loudly. This caused her lady-in-waiting and long-time companion to stop dead in her tracks, glancing up from her momentary trance.

Kenna flushed and clasped her hands tightly together, biting firmly down upon her lower lip. The skin above her chin began to pale as she clenched at it, nervously, biting down harder and harder the closer that Mary approached. Kenna then glanced back towards the king's door -of which she had just emerged- and pointed at the solid wood, almost with an accusatory tone. "Uh – _oh_! I was – I mean _we_ were… it's a delicate matter, _really_ …"

The mid-morning sunshine glanced beautifully off of a large, ornate necklace that wrapped smoothly around Kenna's neck as she stammered on and on; blatantly lying through her straight, white teeth. The sparkling diamonds danced wildly, bouncing up and down as the Scottish girl's breath began to draw in and out more frantically.

Mary swallowed, eyeing the jewelry with interest before folding her arms across her chest in a display of pure disappointment. Her brow quirked as she inquired, thickly, cutting across Kenna's jabbering words like a sharp knife, "is that Queen Catherine's necklace?"

Kenna's lips parted as she touched the spot of the necklace that laid elegantly across her collarbone. She turned haltingly towards Mary and frowned deeply in response.

Mary narrowed her eyes, feeling a chill creep up her spine _. Of course_. "Are you having an affair with the king?"

There was a pause. Then, Kenna's eyes shone brightly, full of confidence and passion. "It's not an affair; it's more."

Mary considered this bit of confession, marveling slightly at Kenna's tenacity.

For her part, the young queen was not sure how to feel. On the one hand, she was pleased to see Kenna so hopeful and happy; on the other hand, Mary had a fiery and persistent bout of suspicion that _refused_ to be ignored. It was widely known that King Henry had been with Diane and Catherine for many, _many_ years. It was even _more_ widely known that countless young ladies had come and gone within that time period… only to be used and tossed aside, like common trash, once they had outstayed their welcome and exercised their _usefulness_ within their roles.

After a span of consideration, a sudden heaviness took hold of Mary's heart and she shook her head slowly back and forth. This felt dangerous; not to mention _damaging_ to Kenna's reputation and future. At length, the young queen's voice barked out, harsh and stern, "and what of his wife?"

A dark shadow crossed Kenna's face. "Their marriage is nothing more than a political alliance – she doesn't _care_!"

"So says the man who's trying to bed you!" Mary retorted, tersely. Her eyes glanced momentarily past Kenna and onto the guard at the king's chamber door, who watched them with rising interest as their conversation grew livelier.

Kenna shook her head, eyes glinting with a strange furor. "Since when do you care about the queen?"

Mary willed her face into a sense of calm indifference as her mind began to unravel. She snapped her eyes back onto Kenna, taking a long, steady breath, as a sick feeling of dread began to crawl its way up into the pit of her stomach. She _didn't_ care about Catherine. She cared about the gravity of Kenna's situation! And -if Mary were to be completely honest with herself- she cared about what this potentially affirmed for her _own_ future.

A sudden, uncontrollable fury coiled within the Queen of Scots as she imagined a life with Olivia at her side; stationed permanently in-between herself and Francis…

Shaking her head in an attempt to rid her mind of the image, Mary took a step forward and grabbed a hold of Kenna's hands, hoping that her sincerely good intentions would somehow pour out through her touch. She squeezed tightly at her fingers before insisting, "I _don't_ care about the queen! I care about you!"

There was a stretch of silence and then a deep sigh. Kenna spoke, slowly and carefully, and each of her words tore away at a piece of Mary's heart as they tumbled with ominous purpose from her friend's thin lips, "kings have mistresses, Mary. It's normal."

A hard lump formed immediately within Mary's throat.

"I see… so, you're a _mistress_ now." Even as she said it, the young queen could not contain the distaste that clearly dripped from her tone.

"Soon to be his _official_ mistress." Said Kenna, raising her chin with pride, "once he ends his relationship with Diane."

_Once he ends his relationship with Diane?_ Mary contained the urge to roll her eyes. Had Kenna gone truly and utterly mad? The king _loved_ Diane! He had chosen Diane, time and again, over any other woman; and it was evident by the way that he treated her – even placing her above Queen Catherine at any given chance. Now, if it were a choice between Kenna and Catherine, the young Scottish girl may have stood a small chance, but…

"Kenna, be reasonable-"

Suddenly, Kenna withdrew her hands from Mary's hold, snapping her arms back down at her sides while huffing in exasperation. Her fingers coiled into frustrated fists as she exclaimed, harshly, "and I _don't_ answer to you anymore! I answer to the king, now."

Then, in a move that seemed to steal all of the air from the hallway, Kenna pushed past the Queen of Scots, leaving Mary with nothing but the sound of her retreating footfalls as they echoed with abrupt _clicks_ down the corridor.

Mary could all but hear her heart thumping into the tile floor at her feet as the walls began to close in around her.

* * *

**B** ash found Mary just beyond the stables, strolling alone down the long dirt passageway lined with tall oak trees that swayed lightly with the crisp autumn winds. The sounds of the leaves, rustling mellifluously against each other, brought forth a sense of natural serenity to the empty walkway; reminding Bash of his love for the deep, isolated woods. He was anxious to depart in the morning, and was eager to take advantage of the opportunity to delve back into the depths of the forest.

And, a voice reminded,he was quite eager to distance himself from his _complicated_ feelings.

Pagan rituals aside, Bash was becoming increasingly more aware of his uncontrollable emotions toward the Queen of Scots; and was mindful of how each time he was around her, his thoughts and behaviors became more confusing and far more frightening. If anything, he needed this time away so that he might escape the emotions Mary invoked within him; and, God willing, he may find the strength to quell his rising affections.

But, these were affairs that Bash would contentedly push to the back of his mind; at least, for today.

He paused at a reasonable distance from the young queen, running the back of his hand against his horse's soft nose as he led it, and another saddled steed, down the passageway behind him. Both horses shook their heads back and forth, jingling the bits within their mouths loudly against their teeth. Despite the ruckus, Mary _still_ failed to notice him; which, in truth, was perfectly fine with Bash.

For he could admire her, in complacent silence, for a moment longer…

The Scottish Queen was wearing a black and red hooded cloak, designed specifically to protect its wearer from the harsh autumn weather and the bitter whipping winds. Her hair was loose and flowing, as it usually was, and one of her smaller golden crowns sat stilly atop her wind-driven locks. Her knee-high boots slipped through the opening of her cloak as she sauntered casually about; and Bash smiled -briefly- at the sight of her thick, pink stockings as they peeked out just below her knees.

_That'll have to do,_ Bash thought to himself as he examined her. Of course, he had seen ladies ride horses in far _less_ appropriate attire…

A bitter gust of wind blew across Bash's face and flitted through his hair, causing a flurry of bumps to spread across his neck and down into his chest. He released a shocked breath, and Mary's eyes snapped onto him with a flash of alarm.

The instantaneous smile that spread across the young queen's plump lips tugged swiftly at Bash's heartstrings. It was good to see the smile returned to her face; for he had feared that, after Olivia's arrival, it may be difficult to elicit such a reaction from the young queen again.

"Hello, Bash," she began, turning to face him. Her eyes glanced curiously at the two brown and white horses that flanked him at his sides, and her long, full lashes blinked several times with confusion. "Are you going out for a ride?"

"Hello, Mary," Bash responded tersely, urging the horses forward. Once he was within arm's reach of her, he extended his hand and dropped the reins belonging to the shorter brown horse swiftly into the palm of Mary's hand. The young queen caught the reins, as an automatic reaction, and Bash continued, "yes, _we_ are."

"Oh, Bash, I can't…" she responded quickly, shooting him a rueful smile.

"Can't, or won't?" Inquired Bash, with a smile of his own.

Mary's jaw dropped partially open as she eyed him, looking incredulous.; her sparkling, warm gaze brimming with visible uncertainty.

Bash paled. Of course, he silently considered, Mary had _no_ desire to join him on a horse ride. Why would she? She was a _queen_ …

Feeling slightly foolish, Bash offered her a warm, understanding smile, and opened his mouth to apologize…

Then, a sudden burst of laughter -traveling out from the castle's distant courtyards- drew both of their attentions.

Bash exhaled -audibly- at the sight of Francis and Olivia, strolling together through the manicured lawns. They looked perfectly at peace, walking alongside each other with their arms intertwined like an unholy knot. It was a scene that Bash had gotten used to, months prior, when Olivia had lived at French Court – but, he hadn't expected to _ever_ witness such affections again. _Especially_ now.

"On second thought, perhaps I can." Mary said quickly, tossing the reins up and over the top of the horse's head.

Bash swallowed and offered her his hand in silence, sensing that she needed his companionship more than his words. The young queen placed her hand delicately within his palm, for balance, and steadied her foot within the low-hanging stirrup. With practiced ease, she swung her right leg over the horse's back and settled herself within the saddle, twisting the edge of the leather reins in-between her pale fingers while examining her hold on them critically.

"I haven't ridden in years." Said Mary breathlessly, squaring her shoulders. Her round, doe-like eyes flicked down onto Bash with a sudden spark of mirth – catching the king's bastard slightly off-guard.

"That's alright, if you fall off and injure yourself… I'll carry you back to the castle." Bash chuckled, patting her horse lightly on the side of its neck. He took a lengthy step back, giving Mary room to move against the saddle and stretch her legs within the thin stirrups. Her horse flicked its tail lazily back and forth, producing a loud cracking sound against the wind, and gnawed against the bit in boredom while patiently awaiting her command.

If Bash hadn't known any better, he would have sworn that Mary belonged within the saddle. She looked very relaxed -more-so than many _other_ riders he had witnessed- and she seemed inexplicably comfortable while sitting atop the horse's back.

After a span of watching her - _rather_ _pensively_ \- Bash cleared his throat and asked, "do you know how to-"

Suddenly, in an act that completely derailed the king's bastard, Mary kicked her heels into the horse's belly - _laughing_ \- and shouted back at him over her fleeing shoulder, "do you know how to keep up?"

Bash's jaw gaped, mid-sentence, as he watched the young queen expertly rein her galloping horse down the cobbled passageway; causing a flurry of dust and pebbles to scatter in her wake.

_That_ -of all things- he had _not_ anticipated.

Bash began to chuckle, despite himself, and turned towards his horse, swinging up into the saddle with nimble proficiency. Without a moment's hesitation, he then kicked his heels into his horse's belly, leaned forward, and bolted after Mary; leaving nothing behind but the sound of his own rolling laughter.

* * *

**T** hey crested the rise of a flat, green hill just as the wind began to truly howl, ripping back the hood of Mary's cloak as their horses trudged onward into the chilling breeze. The Queen of Scots' hair flew all around her like a dark river, and the crisp winds painted her cheeks with an alluring, natural blush. She wasn't certain of how long they had been riding, or, truly, of where their final destination would be; all that Mary knew was that she felt wild and free, far beyond the French Castle's walls and further away from her troubles than she had ever been before.

They raced across the lush, grassy meadows for a time, flying past an old abandoned church and eventually reining their horses out towards the bluff of the hill. Their horses snorted and pawed the earth beneath them as Bash and Mary urged them to a stop, pausing to enjoy the vast stretch of scenery painted across the horizon before them. It seemed almost surreal, Mary considered, as she stared out into the inaccessible spaces where the violent waves of the ocean seemed to meet with the tranquil ebb of the sky.

The young queen breathed in the smells of the strong autumn breeze, beaming as it tangled and wrapped around the dark locks of her hair with a gentle, lingering touch. A mixture of salty ocean and earthy grass wafted pleasantly within the air's cooling scent; and Mary felt completely and utterly at peace.

"I can almost forget my troubles here." She said with a heavy sigh as her lips stretched into a warm smile. She ruefully recollected some distant memory, the ghost of it bright within her eyes. Without filter, Mary began to gush about her recollection with apparent adoration, "this place reminds me of the meadows outside of the convent... I would always find wild lily flowers throughout the fields; freshly blooming and so, _so_ lovely. I haven't been able to find any, since I arrived in French Court..."

Mary could feel more than see Bash glance her way, as she trailed off.

"I have seen them, out in the country. They bloom along the rivers." He said slowly, with thoughtful poise. "I will bring you some when I return."

Mary's eyes flashed onto Bash, and her horse pawed at the ground aggressively beneath her – sensing the sudden shift in its rider's disposition. She couldn't contain the rush of disappointment that washed throughout her as she eyed the king's bastard with interest. At length, she wet her lips and inquired slowly, "when… you return?"

Bash leaned back within his saddle, folding his wrists loosely atop his lap while balancing the reins effortlessly between his gloved fingers. His expression clouded with an utterly _unreadable_ aspect. "Yes. I will be gone, only for a few days."

"I did not know." Said Mary, frowning slightly.

"It… was rather sudden." Bash sighed, and it was a melancholy kind of sound against the whispering of the winds; and Mary did not miss the apparent avoidance within his shifting demeanor.

Curiosity peaked, and the young queen rounded her shoulders while adjusting within the saddle – attempting to appear feasibly unaffected by Bash's subtleties. "Hunting trip?"

"Something like that." Bash said, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck as he averted his eyes out onto the ocean.

Mary stared into the side of Bash's face, skeptically. His dark hair brushed back and forth across his brow in an alluring kind of way, and his jaw tensed as he reflected upon something that seemed to momentarily take hold of his weary mind.

As if feeling her pressing stare, the king's bastard flicked his cool eyes up and onto Mary's face while grinning with apparent amusement. His smile, soft and reassuring, drew out her own smile. "You needn't worry, Mary."

Perhaps he was right.

Still, she would not be so _easily_ swayed.

"Why is it that everyone keeps secrets from me?" Mary blurted, narrowing her eyes with rising frustration – though, admittedly, she struggled to force out even a _phony_ tone of anger. "Francis, Kenna… _you_."

Bash seemed to consider this for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head with an amused smile. He twisted within the saddle, moving to fully face her, and tilted his head to the side. With a heavy respire, he eventually caved, "there is a rumor of religious sacrifices sweeping throughout the kingdom. People are being drained of their blood in what we believe to be pagan rituals. I am going out to further investigate these attacks, and hopefully capture the vagrants who are responsible."

Mary blinked. "Pagan rituals!?"

Bash twisted his lips, containing the rising laughter within his throat. "I told you; you needn't worry."

The Queen of Scots sighed deeply, considering. He was right, of course. She had no reason to be concerned – beyond the fact that Bash's wellbeing wasn't _necessarily_ her burden to carry. Still, she reasoned, her concern for him -as a _friend-_ would be a difficult feeling to curb...

Mary's horse snorted loudly beneath her, jarring the young queen back into reality.

"When do you leave?" She asked finally, wincing at the blatant uneasiness that coated her tone.

Bash leaned slightly forward and caught her eye, smiling as if he understood her concerns and wished to placate them. His leather jacket squeaked at his arms as he suddenly reined his horse closer towards Mary's, moving so that their bent knees were almost knocking against one another. He was _so_ close -almost as if they were seated together atop a bench- and Mary could feel the heat of Bash's body rolling off of him in waves; despite the frozen winds that encircled them as if they were trapped within a flurried channel.

How was it, she silently mused, that Bash was so warm _all of the time_?

"Francis has made arrangements for me to leave by morning's light." Bash's voice broke through Mary's ponderings, sharply drawing her attention.

Clearing her throat, Mary tried for enthusiasm. "Then you will attend the costume banquet tonight, I presume?"

"Michaelmas?" Bash questioned, eyeing her quizzically. "I hadn't considered it."

"You should!" Said Mary – _rather_ promptly. She bit her lip and inclined her head, continuing, "it will be a nice way to see you off."

Selfishly, Mary knew that this was not the only reason that she desired Bash's presence at the costume banquet. She knew that Olivia would _undoubtedly_ attend the party; and that the Queen of Scots would require _many_ friends to anchor her down in such occurrences.

Also, a voice melodically chimed from the far reaches of Mary's mind, there is _another_ reason…

"If you wish it." Bash said, coolly.

Yet, something about his tone, and the look within his eyes, made heat thunder throughout Mary's veins with a suddenness that nearly robbed her of breath and balance. Never, in her sixteen years of life, had anyone _ever_ looked at Mary in such a way that Bash did; as though she was _more_ than she was... and all at once, Lola's words came rushing back with a fury…

"… _but I also_ _see_ _him – and the way that he looks at you..."_

Just as Mary began to feel as if she would fall from the saddle of her horse, Bash tore his eyes away and furrowed his brow; breaking whatever spell had taken a momentary hold between them.

"What - _ah_ \- what is it that Kenna has lied to you about?" He asked, hoarsely. And he, too, seemed flustered, as he shifted once again within the saddle.

Mary pressed her lips into a hard line before drawing a harsh, cleansing breath. She clasped her hands tightly around the reins and muttered, quickly, "the king -your _father_ \- has… been bedding her."

Bash had begun to lean forward to run his hand along his horse's neck, but paused mid-motion and twisted his face into a puzzled expression as Mary's words struck a chord. "Yes – I had heard rumor of that."

"You knew!?" Mary gasped, despite herself.

Bash paled and winced, before defending himself. "The servants talk. And she isn't the first young, beautiful lady to fall prey to his desires!"

Mary was silent, for a beat. Her heart dropped as the reality settled in; for, just as she had suspected, Kenna would be following a _long_ history of mistresses and playthings at King Henry's disposal.

"I may have been too harsh with her." Blurted Mary, not quite able to contain the rising guilt within her voice.

"Then you should make it right." Responded Bash, softly. "But that isn't all that bothers you about this situation, is it?"

Mary winced – too quickly for her to contain or hide. _How_ Bash knew these things about the inner workings of her mind, without her admittance, she would never understand...

A smile, soft and sad, graced her face, before she muttered, "the apple never falls far from the tree."

Bash looked at her again, eyes earnest, brimming with some emotion that she could not place. "I know that you do not believe me when I say this; but, Francis is nothing like our father."

It was not lost on Mary how Bash referred to Francis with _such_ adoration. She understood that their brotherly bond was strong -surely, a force to be reckoned with- but she couldn't credulously believe in every reassurance that Bash offered in his brother's stead. After all, people were _oftentimes_ blinded by their ardent love for another; and it was quite difficult to see their wrongdoings.

"I believe that you _want_ to believe that, Bash. As do I."

They sat for a time, atop their horses, locked within a comfortable silence. The waves below them crashed wildly into the rocky cliff edge, clapping loudly against the surface as water and earth violently collided. The sun began to trail slowly down into the water, reminding them that their time away would soon come to an end; and, despite her earlier peace, Mary could feel the realities of politics and French Court beginning to creep back into her mind, stealing away her tranquility and harmony.

"I best get you back," said Bash, after a long silent span, gesturing towards the top of Mary's head, "you can't show up to a party looking like _that_."

Mary ducked her head with a laugh, reaching her hands up into her hair self-consciously. She could feel the wild tangles and knots beginning to take form within her locks and she flushed, despite herself; which, in turn, elicited a chuckle from Bash.

The king's bastard reined his horse to the side, distancing himself from Mary, before turning back towards her with a soft smile. His eyes shone with an emotion that caused the Queen of Scots' heart to tremble as he breathed, "do not worry. You are always beautiful, _Your Grace_."

Mary giggled with true amusement; though she was suddenly _very_ aware of the sound of her heartbeat, drumming wildly within her ears as she urged her horse forward to follow after him.

* * *

**T** he Michaelmas banquet was -and, _always_ would be- a strange party, indeed.

It was a celebration dedicated to Saint Michael for slaying Lucifer, and it was a day in which party-goers dressed in costumes and masks; falsifying the reality that no one within French Court was better than anyone else. Unfortunately, no wardrobes or elaborate disguises could _truly_ change the stature or rank of any single individual – and Bash was _not_ the kind of person to indulge in such silly traditions.

Yet, here he was. Not in costume, of course, but still very much _here_.

As the orchestra began to play several different -and rather _monotonous_ \- waltz variations, Bash glanced towards the large table at the edge of the ballroom, peering with interest towards the seated royal family and their _chosen_ special guests. The chairs along either side of the wide, oak table were sprinkled with several different 'worthy' visitors; some local landowners, a few titled ladies, and an assortment of English diplomats. King Henry was at the head, as to be expected, shouldered alongside Bash's own mother _and_ Queen Catherine.

As usual, all was lively within the great hall; but at the head of the table it was nothing but tense silence and awkward exchanges.

Bash found, as he watched his mother with interest, that he rather admired her stubbornness; for despite being _used_ to Diane de Poitier's presence, Catherine never made it an easy _or_ enjoyable occasion whenever the king's mistress was present. This never seemed to phase Bash's mother; as was apparent -even _now_ \- as she sat with rounded, proud shoulders at his father's side – and Bash couldn't help but wonder if Kenna could handle such altercations on a regular basis.

In truth, Bash doubted that the young Scottish girl would truly shoulder her way into his father's heart. Sure, she was beautiful. And certainly, she was younger and far more _sprightly_ than Bash's mother. But, Diane had a _way_ with Henry that no woman could ever match, and Bash wasn't sure how to identify it; lust, friendship, perhaps even _love_. Regardless, it was a bond that would not be easily broken.

On occasion -certainly not often- Bash wondered what it would be like if his mother had been royalty, or had come from a family with a hefty dowry. It was widely known throughout the kingdom that Diane - _and_ Bash- were Henry's favorites; but, what if they were _also_ worthy of royal titles? Of course, Bash would have been expected to stay within the safety of the castle – and he would have missed out on all of the grand opportunities he had experienced in his wild freedom. But, he would be a prince. He would be respected and envied. He would have the power to make changes. He would have wealth, security, and a promising future.

And, he would be engaged Mary...

"Oh, look – there's Bash!"

Bash blinked, tearing his eyes away from his parents at the sound of – who was it? Kenna?

_Yes._

Bash softened at the sight of Mary and her ladies-in-waiting, approaching him with wide, pleasant smiles. Kenna was in the lead; proving that Mary had, somehow, rekindled their friendship from its earlier ruin – or, at least, the two girls had come to some kind of an _agreement_ to be cordial with one another.

"Kenna, Lola, Aylee, Greer…" said Bash with a charming smirk, eyes shining as he looked at them in turn, "you all look wonderful."

And they did – truly. Greer was wearing a peach-colored gown that fell low across her shoulders, with an elegant golden mask held tightly across the bridge of her nose. Lola was wearing a flowing, white dress with large feathered wings strapped across her back, and an archangel hat that sat atop her wild, brown tendrils. Kenna was wearing a purple and green gown, with intricate beads and ribbons braided into the long strands of her hair, in what Bash could only _assume_ was her personal interpretation of a wood sprite. Aylee was wearing a costume that began as a checkered dress-suit with a puffy golden collar, and tapered out into a wide, white gown at her waist. And Mary…

"I _love_ your costume, Bash." Said Mary suddenly, in mockery.

Bash snapped his eyes onto Mary, briefly allowing his gaze to travel up and down the young queen's outfit, and he quirked a brow. "And _what_ are you?"

Mary fanned her arms out around her and bowed her head forward, twisting from side to side so that Bash could look upon her in full. She was wearing a form-fitting golden gown, with a gold and green hairpiece that secured half of her intricate ringlets into place. A fake bow was strapped tightly across her chest, and her own golden mask was clasped loosely between her hands alongside a single, decorative arrow.

After a span of silence, and Bash's apparent lack of deduction, Mary blurted, "I'm Artemis. Though, I suppose I may appear to be more of a… a huntress."

"I have never met a huntress that looked like _this_ ," Bash murmured quickly, blinking, "and if I did, it would surely be my ruin."

Mary's head shot back up as her cheeks noticeably flushed. Aylee and Kenna giggled slightly, and Bash did not miss Greer's elbows jabbing quickly against each of their chuckling sides in an effort to silence them. The king's bastard shot them each a flirtatious smile while chuckling, amused.

A voice, not belonging to any of them, sounded off from somewhere behind Bash.

"Quite the party, isn't it?"

Bash turned to see Francis, fast approaching with Olivia at his side.

Before any further commentary could be made from either party, Mary quickly stammered, "excuse us."

Francis' opened his mouth to say something, but the Queen of Scots had promptly latched onto the arms of two of her ladies-in-waiting, and was ushering them away with haste. Bash watched after the five ladies thoughtfully as they departed, internally groaning. He then shot Francis a fake smile, taking in his little brother's obvious outfit with a heavy sigh. "Saint Michael?"

Francis returned the smile and nodded, resting his hands atop the hilt of the sword at his hip. His black costume cape hung freely across his shoulders, and a large red cross painted the fake chainmail at his chest, giving him the appearance of an ancient knight.

"Bash, it is good to see you again." Olivia cooed, curtsying. Bash couldn't help but notice the obvious display of her breasts as they bobbed playfully at the top of her tight, maroon dress; threatening to pop out at any given moment.

"Olivia," said Bash in acknowledgement, also bowing. When he straightened, he couldn't contain the sarcastic drip within his voice as he inquired, "you're… the goddess of seduction, I presume?"

Olivia's face washed over with confusion, and Francis shot Bash an immediate, sharp look full of clear and furious warnings.

"I see that you are sticking to your traditions of wearing… yourself." Francis snapped, frowning.

Bash barked out a laugh that held little humor. "Noble traditions are not for me, Little Brother."

Francis sighed, shuffling his feet with apparent irritation. "Right, you are _only_ the son of a king."

"Are you enjoying your stay at the castle, Olivia?" Inquired Bash of Olivia, twisting towards the golden-haired lady in a move that dismissed any further commentary from Francis.

"It quite suits me." Said Olivia, flushing. Her blood-red lips curved up into a coy smile as she glanced from the corner of her eyes, locking her intimate stare onto the side Francis's face.

_No doubt,_ Bash silently mused. Of course, French Court _suited_ Olivia – she was a lady of wealth and status. She was also a lady of _ambition._ And, though she certainly cared for Francis, Bash couldn't help but anticipate destruction in Lady D'Amencourt's wake.

"Enjoy it," Bash smiled, flicking his eyes pointedly towards Francis while murmuring, "it is easy to underestimate the _wonderful_ opportunities that we have, until they are gone."

The orchestra began to play a much livelier tune, which carried high into the rafters above the party; and Bash took this opportunity to leave Francis and Olivia alone with their mixed expressions – Francis looking distraught and Olivia looking _rather_ baffled. The king's bastard could feel his brother's piercing eyes, boring into the back of his head as Bash distanced himself from the Dauphin at the far end of the room; though, he couldn't be bothered with such trivial matters any longer.

_Let him glare_ , Bash mused to himself as he lifted a goblet of wine free from a passing servant's silver tray. The king's bastard was long past the point of treating his little brother with subtlety; and he certainly would not pretend to approve of Francis' manner of conducting himself, of late.

Bash sipped at his wine for a time; long enough for him to reach the bottom of his current goblet and request a fresh, full chalice. Once he was feeling decidedly _lighter_ , the king's bastard caught sight of Mary across the ballroom floor; drowning herself in her own glass of wine as she glowered with apparent distaste in Francis' and Olivia's direction. Bash chuckled as Lola suddenly reached for the Queen of Scotland's glass, gently lifting the goblet from her friend's fingers with concern clouding her blue eyes.

A cheerful melody began trickling out from the ensemble at the corner of the room. Mary, wobbling slightly, brightened with a flash of excitement while grabbing for Lola's wrist; causing her friend to gasp with credible bewilderment. The young queen then proceeded to drag her lady-in-waiting out onto the dance floor, spinning around in a wild circle while clasping tightly onto her friend's outstretched hands. Lola laughed, shaking her head at Mary's expense, and called out for Greer, Aylee, and Kenna to join them. Before long, there was a sea of Scottish girls twirling around the dance floor, much like they had on their first night at French Court; and they all proceeded to spin and twirl and dance for the entirety of the lively song.

This time, unlike their first dance, some of the girls seemed a _bit_ more relaxed; which, no doubt, could be accredited to the sweet, intoxicating results of the evening's red wine beverage.

Once the dancing ended, and the music had shifted into a slower melody, Mary sauntered over to the edge of the dance floor where Bash was standing; closely followed by her four friends, who all drew sharp breaths in attempts to regain their stolen stamina.

Once she had reached him, Mary smiled with exhilaration and inquired, a little breathless herself, "do you not dance, Bash?"

Aware of the _many_ surrounding eyes and ears of the nobles and other party-goers, Bash chuckled and shook his head slowly back and forth. "No, Your Grace."

"Mary!" She corrected him stubbornly, fixing her face into a phony pout. Bash swallowed, glancing towards Lola, whose soft features appeared to be rapidly returning to the familiar mien of strict, unfaltering concern.

" _Mary_ ," Bash began, drawing a steady breath as he flicked his gaze back onto the Queen of Scotland's beaming face, "I prefer to _casually_ observe… from the corner."

Mary lifted her chin and folded her arms at her chest, eyeing Bash suspiciously. "You do not dress up for costume banquets and you do not dance – are you _certain_ that you are the 'fun' brother?"

Bash laughed loudly, despite himself. Once he had regained his composure he grinned widely and placed his empty goblet casually atop the table to his left.

_Has she not had enough fun for one day?_ He mused, tilting his head to the side. He met her intense stare and murmured with apparent dalliance, "I'm not so sure; you tell me which one of us is more _fun_."

"You're losing your rank, I must say – _oh_!"

Mary stopped short as Bash grabbed gently at her wrist, freeing her arms from their folded position at her chest. He then twirled her around, twice, and caught her against his knee; holding her for a moment within the protection of his arms. Mary's eyes were wide with shock, and her lips were parted slightly as she drew in rapid, startled breaths. Her chest lifted and dropped in a rhythm that didn't quite match the tempo of the music; and her reaction caused heat to dance across Bash's body as realization dawned that - _perhaps_ \- the Queen of Scotland might be affected in the same confusing way that he was.

Bash straightened, pulling Mary upright with him, and released his hands while clearing his throat - loudly. Mary proceeded to then laugh in the most charmingly cheerful way, glancing to her friends in turn. Unlike their queen, however, Greer, Aylee, Lola, and Kenna all stared at her with separate forms of wide-eyed consternation; and it struck Bash - _immediately_ \- that his behavior may have been boldly inappropriate.

Regardless, a dark and persistent voice whispered, Bash would do _anything_ to keep that smile -pure and sweet- upon Mary's face for just a little while longer.

Deliberately ignoring her friends and their pointed glances -or, perhaps, simply disbelieving the implications behind them- Mary flicked her eyes back onto Bash and nodded. "So, you _can_ dance!"

Bash shrugged his shoulders up, briefly, and teased, "beginner's luck."

"Hardly." Said Mary, with a coy smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bash could see his father's glare, boring into the side of his bastard son's face from across the room. A chill crept up Bash's spine and washed across his brow, clearing his mind and countenance in one swift wave.

"I will miss your smile while I am gone." Bash said, placing one hand behind his back and bowing low before her with genteel ease, "enjoy the rest of your night, Mary."

When he straightened, Bash stole a glance towards his father; and was instantly dismayed to not only meet Henry's challenging stare, but also to discover the _pained_ expression that had taken hold of Francis' astonished face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand here we are. Thoughts? :)
> 
> I thought I'd give us all a bit of cheese before things get a little… bumpy. -cough-
> 
> Loving the support that this story is getting though, guys! Keep it up!
> 
> Love.


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